


Time Out of Mind

by XFilesinAMajor



Series: GLOW [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 72,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22335940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XFilesinAMajor/pseuds/XFilesinAMajor
Summary: It's 1989. Stan Pines has spent the past seven years essentially alone; living under his brother's identity, attempting to get an impossible dimensional portal working, and transforming the building around him into a profitable tourist trap. He has no idea when or if he'll even succeed at it--but he can't just give up, either.Then one snowy evening in February, a strange woman practically falls through his front door. She claims she's come here accidentally from the future. Could be. He's seen crazier stuff, after all. But even so, it seems like she knows just a little bit too much...
Relationships: Stan Pines & Original Character(s)
Series: GLOW [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574239
Comments: 34
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

I don’t live in a normal town. If you go for a walk in the woods and you’re paying attention, you might encounter gnomes, or monsters, or fairies, or flying eyeballs. You never want to open a door marked with the number thirteen, and for a while there we had a temporal rip in the freezer aisle of the grocery store. Ghosts are plentiful too—we have one in our house, in fact, who regards himself as my third son. A few years back, my boyfriend battled a chaos demon trying to take over our dimension. I glow in the dark. Being weird is more normal than being normal.

And yet sometimes things happen that still catch me completely by surprise.

Right now, for example.

It’s a Saturday in summer, and I’m outside the Mystery Shack. That’s the tourist trap that my boyfriend Stan runs with his…well, I guess I’d call Soos his protégé, but only because I can’t think of any more accurate description. I occasionally help out there on the weekends, along with the rest of the family, which is why I’m here right now. But even though business is hopping today, it seems like they’ve got things covered inside. Stan and Soos are both giving tours, their cashiers Melody and Wendy are manning the gift shop, and I _was_ helping Stan’s niece and nephew with exterior maintenance until they told me to get lost. Alright, what they actually said was “Teakettle, you are working _way_ too hard! Leave this to us. Why don’t you go take a nice long walk?”

I don’t think I’m working all that hard, and I suspect they’re only offering because they want to goof off while they work, but I accept anyway. Despite my tendency to trip over roots and lose the path, I love walks in the wood. And the twins really _do_ seem to have things under control. Besides, this is _their_ summer, too. If they want to goof off a little while helping their uncle, I support that. My son Dave is working his job at the mall shoe store today, while his younger brothers are presumably either sleeping or playing games at home.

The Mystery Shack is located right on the edge of a deep, expansive forest that I’m pretty sure is bigger than the populated part of town. I know how to handle most of the creatures I might encounter, but the truth is they usually stay out of sight unless they know you. I stroll slowly down the path away from the Shack, enjoying the alternate patches of sun and shade, admiring the mosses and mushrooms growing at the bases of trees. Some small creature rustles in the leaves above me, and birds chirp to each other. I let out a deep sigh of happiness and peace. Maybe I _do_ need this.

I walk for at least half an hour, letting my body relax into the rhythm and my mind drift. I’m glad the Shack is so busy this summer—a year ago, there had barely been enough money to pay Melody’s part-time wage, and here we were with all hands on deck. Stan inherited a bit of money late this spring, and he poured very little of it into his business. Most of it is sitting in a safe in our bedroom right now, waiting for an emergency to deplete it or a trip to Vegas to expand it. Stan’s promising to take me on that trip so that I can help him cheat, and I’m only slightly ashamed to say I’m excited for it. I used to worry that he’d either lose all the money or land us both in jail, but in the year we’ve been together I’ve noticed that every time I put my faith in him, he proves I was right to do it. I’ve decided to keep trusting my conman.

My mind dwells on Vegas for a while, enjoying the idea of a vacation, before drifting onto my kids instead. I’m used to worrying about Dave the most, but lately he’s the most grounded one in the family. He divides his time responsibly between his social life, his band, and his job. He spends more of his money on clothes and make-up and movies than I’d like, but he seems to have it under control. He’s becoming an adult, which makes me both proud and sad. Nicky used to be the easy one, since gaming and studying are his favorite activities, but he’s going into eight grade this fall and—

I trip over something hard. I put my hands out to catch myself, but my legs don’t go flying the way they usually do when I trip and sprawl in the dirt. The toe of my shoe catches on the root that tripped me, and my ankle twists as my body tries to stagger forward and right itself. I crumple downward over my foot instead, uttering a little moan of frustration and pain.

I sit back on the dead leaves and stretch my left leg out in front of me. I don’t think anything’s broken, that’s good. The angles all look normal, and I didn’t hear any snaps, anyway. But all attempts to move my foot or ankle make the color drain out of my face, and some of them make me gasp in pain as well. I stop trying to move it, and lean back instead. Time to dig my phone out of my pocket and call for help, I guess. I hate pulling anyone away from what they’re doing, but I’m far enough from the Shack that there’s no way I’m making it back there without help. Damn it.

As I shift my weight so that I can pull my phone out, the back of my hand brushes against an object on the forest floor. It looks like a tape measure. It’s half-buried, covered in a layer of dirt and debris, but I dig it out and have a look. Seems like a weird place for a tape-measure to be. I look more carefully at the trees and rocks around the path. I know Stan’s brother used to have a hidden bunker out in these woods. Maybe I’m near it? I can’t think of any other reason someone would have brought a tool out to the middle of the woods. It’s clearly been a long time since the lumberjacks took anything from this area, and there’s not so much as a kids’ fort around.

I don’t see anything, of course. But that doesn’t mean it’s not here. I look at the tape measure again thoughtfully, because it’s a brief distraction from the hot flashes of pain in my ankle. Idly, pull out the tape a few inches and let it go.

A flash of white light takes me by surprise, blindingly bright and all around me. I shout in surprise and clap my hands to my eyes defensively, wondering in a split-second of terror whether this is the end of the world. But that second ends, and another one follows, and a few more tick by—and I’m still sitting here in the dirt. Must not be the end of the world. I lower my hands, open my eyes, and blink.

And shiver. Because I have no logical explanation for it, but I’m now sitting in about half a foot of snow. The bitter cold air starts biting my bare skin, and the butt of my khaki shorts soaks up moisture from the snow under me. How did snow magically appear _under_ me? I shiver violently, rubbing my upper arms and pressing my torso closer against my thighs.

Now that the shock is passing, my natural defenses take back over. This is super weird, yes, but I’ve been through plenty of weird shit. Sitting around in the snow with an injured ankle and no coat trying to puzzle out what happened will not serve me well. Call for help first, _then_ we can figure out what the hell is going on.

I go back to pulling my phone out of my pocket. I dial Mabel’s number first; she and Dipper aren’t engaged with customers, know the woods well, and have access to the Shack’s golf cart. I press the call button…and nothing happens. No signal, no dial tone, no nothing. I try Dipper instead, and get the same result. Panic is trying o rise inside me, but I force it back down. I try calling Stan, and when that fails I try sending a text to Nicky because maybe the problem area is only around the Shack. It fails to send at all, and so does the one to Dave.

Okay, so it must be _my_ signal. Either that or all telecommunications are messed up from the flash and the snow. Well, this sure does suck. Guess I’m limping and crawling the whole way back to the Shack. Hopefully the phone decides to start working before I get frostbite. Damn it, Gravity Falls. I love you and all, but can’t you give the crazy stuff a rest once in a while?

I push myself carefully to my good foot and take a cautious hop in the direction I came from. My balance isn’t great, but I get close enough to a tree that I can support myself while testing my weight on my left foot. I instantly know that’s not going to work. I take a few more careful hops to the next tree in my path, keeping an eye out for fallen branches large enough to use as a crutch or cane.

This _sucks_.

The snow makes hopping even more difficult and exhausting than it would ordinarily be, and it’s not long before my right foot has an icy wet sock plastered to it. My hands and thighs hurt from the cold, my face is numb, and my nipples are harder than diamonds. Every time I bump my left foot, pain flashes through my ankle. I can’t think of many times in my life I’ve been quite this physically miserable.

A clump of snow falls of a branch onto my back, and I shriek and try to shake it off. I don’t want to rest, because I’m freezing and eager to get someplace with heat and blankets and anti-inflammatories. I’m not progressing nearly fast enough. But I’m also exhausted already. I pause against a tree to catch my breath and try my phone again.

It’s still not cooperating, so it’s still just me and the snow. Mental note: Teagan, stop pretending you are outdoorsy. You are not outdoorsy. Even when you have your phone and know the area and think you are safe, you are a clumsy idiot who cannot be trusted in the great outdoors. Stick to your backyard. Never do this again.

I go back to hopping from tree to tree. My body doesn’t know whether to sweat from exertion or seize up from cold. It feels like I’ve been at it for an hour, but I have an unpleasant hunch that it’s really been less than half that. I find a branch to use as a cane, but it’s awkward at best and only helps me go marginally faster. Then after a few minutes of use I lean on it too hard, and it snaps, sending me toppling onto my hands and knees into the snow. I rub my hands off on the front of my shirt, but they remain pink and damp. My teeth are chattering so hard I doubt I could hear my phone if it rang. I pull it out with trembling fingers and try to reach someone again. My phone is on, but the cellular connection isn’t. No internet, no calls, no texts. Time to start hopping again.

I wonder if I’m getting hypothermia. I don’t know how cold it actually is around me—going straight from July weather into snow has confused my senses so much it might be 50 degrees here and I’d still be shivering. Let’s face it though, it’s probably _not_ 50 degrees. The occasional clumps of melting snow tell me that maybe it’s above freezing, but it’s still very definitely winter. Can I freeze to death if it’s not even freezing out? My hopping is certainly getting more irregular and challenging, but hopping on one foot for this length of time is bound to take its toll on my muscles.

Anyway, not like I have any choices here. I either sit down and cry and get colder, or I keep moving. At least I took a fairly straight path when I left, and the compass app on my phone still works. I can’t be more than a mile from the Shack.

I find another stick, and this one does help me limp along more quickly. It also doesn’t snap. But I’m not feeling so good anymore, either. Not just cold, but fuzzy. I remember reading somewhere that when you’re really dying of hypothermia, you stop feeling cold. That comforts me, because all my muscles have constricted into tight knots from the cold, and my exposed skin is prickling with pain.

It’s all about balance. If I go too fast, I lose it. If I go too slow…I also lose it. Hop-limp, hop-limp. Don’t lose my grip on the stick, either. Don’t stand around staring at that tree. Hop-limp. I can hardly even feel my injured ankle anymore. Maybe I can just walk. _Ow_! Nope. Ow. Hop-limp, hop-limp. Which way does the path go here? I don’t see anything I recognize. Hey look, a bird! I wonder why _they_ don’t get cold in the winter. What do they eat? No worms in winter. Oh shit, I’m just standing here again. Hop-limp, hop-limp. It seems to go on for hours.

Finally, I think I can see the end of the woods ahead of me—an abrupt end of trees in the distance, giving way to what looks like a white, empty stretch of land. In my excitement I start to run, remember too late that I can’t. I land face-first in the snow again when my ankle unceremoniously gives out. I rub my face against my shoulder to remove bits of clinging snow, and look around for my stick. I have to crawl back a few feet to grab it, and getting to my feet feels like an impossible hurdle. I force myself up, putting most of my weight on the stick, feeling positively Herculean for making it. I start moving forward again, at just the right pace. Hop-limp, hip-lump, lop-himp, hot-shrimp, mean-pimp, sad-wimp—

I trip again, landing on my knees this time. I sit there in the snow for a long minute, trying to remember why I shouldn’t just give up and wait here. Won’t everyone be out looking for me by now? I can see the Shack at last, peeking tantalizingly out from the edge of the clearing. Any minute now Soos and Dipper will come around the corner of it in the golf cart, or Stan will come running out the front door. They will all have been so worried. They’ll be able to explain everything.

Where are they?

I check my phone again, dropping it once in the process. Twice. There is still no signal to be found anywhere. I shove it back in my pocket, but miss and drop it a third time. Stupid frozen fingers no cooperating. Back to my feet. Slowly. Hop-lop, hump-lump, hip-lip, help-me, help-me, help-me. For a miracle, I’m finally out of the forest. I’m still alone in a fucking winter wonderland, though, so I keep forcing myself to take one more hop, one more step, one more foot closer to the Mystery Shack.

There are no customers around, either. I almost forget to think that’s odd, because there _are_ way less tourists in the middle of winter. But the place was swarming with tourists just a few hours ago. It’s almost like it wasn’t some freak weather change, but like I’ve actually moved through time.

Holy shit, did I move through time? Is _that_ what this is? Did I miss half a year of my life? Rip Van Teagan? What has my family been doing without me all this time? Have they written me off as lost? Dead? Given up on me?

Moving forward is still awkward, but my sense of urgency is suddenly a little stronger. I make it to the door—the side door, the one that opens on the gift shop, because it’s the first one I come to—and try to open it. Locked—which kind of makes sense, if it’s not open for business right now. I bang on the door instead, frustrated that my fists aren’t connecting harder with the thick wood. The sounds they make seem weak and pathetic, but I lean against the door frame and keep at it.

When the door is finally, abruptly, yanked inward, I barely maintain my balance. This means that instead of going sprawling through the entrance of the gift shop, I slip partway down the frame, grab at the doorknob, and collapse in slow motion.

There’s a bright yellow light coming from the open doorway at the other side of the room, and there’s the eerie greenish light coming off of me. Nothing else to see by. But I can make out the figure standing above me, familiar in its broad shoulders and wide jaw. I draw in a sharp breath of relief, and realize I’m shaking again—whether I just started shaking again, or whether I just realized it all over again, I’m have no idea. But I’m inside, there’s heat, and Stan’s here. I’ll be okay. Whatever the hell is going on, it’ll be okay.

“Stan,” I mumble thickly, attempting and failing to get back to my feet. “I don’t know what happened. I was in the woods and there was this flash. Sprained my ankle. Turned into winter somehow. Did I, um, like…skip time? Or something?” I look up at him hopefully, but he hasn’t made any move to pull me into a tight, rough hug like he normally would. I peer at him more closely, wishing he’d come nearer so I could get a good look. He’s outside of my glow, and the edges of my vision are still kinda fuzzy. “Where are the boys?” I start to ask, but change my mind before he has a chance to answer. “Where are your _glasses_?”

There are lots of weird things in Gravity Falls, let me tell you. But I’ve yet to experience any quite so painful as hearing a voice you know as well as your own, the voice of the man you’ve been sharing a bed with for the past year, a voice you love, ask suspiciously “Who the hell are _you_?”

* 

“It’s me,” I say stupidly, and my face must not be _quite_ numb because I can feel the tears behind my eyes. “How many people do you know who glow in the dark?”

He doesn’t step any closer, but the shape of him cocks its head to the side. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said. I know him well enough to read the hint of interest underlying the suspicion in his voice. But his answer doesn’t make any sense. If he can see it’s me, why isn’t he holding me already?

Like a real pro, I start to cry.

“Hey, no, don’t do that,” he says awkwardly, and now it’s discomfort replacing most of the suspicion in his voice. He hesitates, and I sniffle, hugging my knees to me. “You’re, uh, you’re probably cold, right?” Stan says after a minute of uncertainty. “Why the hell are you wearing shorts?”

That just elicits a fresh bought of tears from me. I’m so cold, and so tired, and my ankle hurts and my body won’t listen to me, and I don’t understand what’s going on. Having my boyfriend stand there helpless, apparently as clueless as me, is just one thing too much.

“Here. Um. I’ll…I’ll get you a blanket.” He walks back out of the room. I shiver and hug my legs some more, trying to think of the reason he’s acting like this. It’s like he really doesn’t know me. What did that flash _do_? Thinking and shivering is hard work, though. I lean my forehead against my icy knees and doze off for a second.

I jerk back awake when something touches my shoulders. I blink and shake my head, but the fuzziness of sleep doesn’t go away. There’s a blanket over my shoulders now. I can process that much. I grab it with tingling fingers and pull it tighter around me.

“Thanks,” I mumble, looking back toward him. “Don’t I get a hug?” I blink out a few more tears. “How long have I been gone? Don’t you _know_ me? Where is everyone?” I can _hear_ that I’m mumbling, and try harder to articulate. He’s probably only catching half of everything I say. Step it up, Teagan.

Stan is a little closer now—close enough that I illuminate his slipper-clad feet, a pair of blue sweatpants I don’t recognize, and arms crossed over his chest. The light barely kisses his face, but something about its outline continues to bother me. “Where are your glasses?” I ask again, hearing my voice sharpen into something close to irritation.

“Glasses?” Stan sounds genuinely puzzled, and then I see him freeze. His body language was wary before, but now it’s outright defensive. Conversely, his voice gets gentler. “Who’d you say you were looking for again?”

“You,” I sniffle. “Stan Pines.”

I can make out his nod, like this is what he expected. “ _Stanford_ Pines?”

My face twitches in confusion, and I stop crying. “ _No_ ,” I answer impatiently. “ _You_. Stanley. What the hell would I want with Ford?” Though now I think about it, Ford’s pretty good at explaining weird phenomenon. Maybe he _would_ be a good guy to have a round right now.

Stan actually takes a step away from me. “I dunno what you’re talking about, lady. Stanley Pines died a couple years ago in a car crash.” He pauses, worried but also definitely confused. “Who sent you?”

“No one.” I tug the blanket tighter around me again. It’s helping, I guess, but I’m still too cold. I know there’s something in what he’s just said, maybe in all of it, that should add up to an obvious explanation. It’s right there at the tip of my mind, but it keeps slipping away from me when I chase it. “Could I get a hot drink or something? Please? I’ve never been so cold in my life.”

Stan glances back toward the door, probably thinking about all the snow out there. His head turns back to me. He doesn’t recognize me, he _definitely_ doesn’t trust me, and he doesn’t want to leave me alone in his gift shop.

I try not to think about how much that hurts.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him. “I don’t think I could walk another step if I wanted to.”

He sighs, his shoulders slumping into their usual slouch, and he steps back toward me before sinking down into a crouch.

My glow illuminates a face that’s both heart-wrenchingly familiar and terrifyingly alien to me. Wide jaw covered in a week’s worth of stubble. Large ears, pink nose, thick eyebrows, warm brown eyes. A few wrinkles around the eyes, but not enough. The skin around his neck is weirdly firm. No glasses. And his hair…

My mind finally grasps the answer that has been evading it. Unfortunately, consciousness slips away from me at right about the same time.


	2. Chapter 2

I’m not fully unconscious, I suppose. The world moves around me in fits and bursts. I wake up slightly when Stan picks me up, and again when he sets me down on top of a bed. He says something about how wet my clothes are, and sounds really embarrassed when he suggests I take them off. I pull my blouse over my head without stopping to think about it, but the button on my shorts is difficult for my frozen fingers. I think I start crying again. I can’t remember the rest. I wake up in a bed, weighted down with blankets. It’s dark. I feel less cold…not warm, but less cold. My ankle hurts like a bitch, and I think it’s going to keep me awake, but I guess it doesn’t. I wake again and hear the whir of a fan or motor. I turn my heavy head to the side and see the red light of a space heater a few feet away. It occurs to me that I’m cozy and comfortable, and I snuggle under all the blankets before sleeping more.

I wake up. I’d think it was all a dream, but I can feel the extra weight of all those blankets, and when I open my eyes I see a room that’s only vaguely familiar. Also, my left ankle is throbbing painfully.

Brown hair.

My mind latches onto that, turning it over and over experimentally. Brown hair, brown hair. The man who moved me to this bed yesterday had been Stan, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. But he’s not my boyfriend. He probably won’t be my boyfriend for another twenty years.

Give or take. I really don’t want to be that person who wakes up and asks what year it is. It seems so…trite. But I’m going to have to tell him I’m from the past, right? I don’t see any way around that. Will it screw up the future, if I tell him the truth? What if I say too much and the future I came from stops existing as a result? Is that a real thing that can happen? All I know about time travel, I’ve gotten from movies and science fiction novels. Well, and that one story Dipper and Mabel told me about the weird time enforcement officer. Now that I think about it, that story is slightly encouraging.

“Good, you’re awake,” Stan says from the doorway.

I jerk in surprise. “How long have you been standing there?”

He flips a light switch, making it easy to see him shrug. “Few minutes.”

I smile nervously. “I guess I owe you an explanation, huh?”

He’s got his arms crossed over his chest again, defiant posture. He took care of me yesterday because he’s a good person, but he _really_ doesn’t trust me. I think, now that I’m getting a better look at him, he’s actually kind of…scared.

I take a deep breath, and push myself up into a sitting position. “Stan,” I say, and then the blankets slip down my chest to show both of us that I’m only wearing my panties and bra. I realize this version of Stan has never seen me in my underwear, and then immediately realize he _has_ , because he helped me out of my wet clothes last night. I feel my face heat up with a blush, and tug the blankets back up to cover most of my bra. “Um,” I say, instead of what I’d planned on. “Do you have a shirt I can borrow?”

He stares at me steadily for a second, like he’s considering whether this request is some sort of trick. He must decide it’s not, because he walks to a dresser, opens a drawer, and pulls out a large black t-shirt. For a second I think he’s just going to toss it at me, but instead he walks over and presses it into my hands. I hurriedly pull it over my head, letting it fall to my waist.

I sigh in relief and offer him a small smile of apology. “Thanks.”

His arms are folded again. “That explanation?”

I nod. “You, uh, you know how this town is weird?”

He tenses and surveys me seriously. “Sure. I guess.”

He’s not going to give _anything_ away until he knows what I’m doing here. Well, given he’s living on a borrowed identity and has nothing but secrets at this point in his life, I can understand that. “You _know_ it is,” I tell him, hearing a faint nervous tremble in my voice. What if he doesn’t believe me? “Please try to remember just how weird this place is, because otherwise you’re never going to believe me.”

“What, are you an alien or something?” he asks, more curious than concerned. “That why you glow?”

“No, I glow because I swallowed a mutant firefly last summer…” I take another deep breath. “In 2013.”

Stan’s face screws up into an expression of profound skepticism, one eyebrow pulling way down. “You’re telling me you’re from the _future_?”

I nod and shrug simultaneously. “Yesterday afternoon, I was in July 2014, going for a stroll in the woods outside the Mystery Shack.” I choose my words carefully, not wanting to freak him out. “I help out there sometimes. In the future.” I stop, and realize I’ve left out something important. “I’m Teagan. Sorry. I never said that, did I? Thanks for helping me yesterday.”

Stan’s just staring at me. “You’re serious.”

I nod. “I know it’s far-fetched. But this place _is_ weird, and do you have any better explanation for why I was outside the Shack wearing shorts in the middle of winter?”

“Sure I do,” he shrugs. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe a little,” I smile. It’s so weird seeing him like this. “But I’m also from 2014.” I hesitate, then take the plunge. “How else can you explain that I know this place belongs to your twin brother Ford? And that you’re trying to reactive the portal hidden below the Shack so that you can get him back?”

 _That_ gets a reaction. His jaw drops slightly, and he sinks down until he’s sitting on the side of the bed— _his_ bed, I realize suddenly. This is his old room. The décor is different, but it’s still his bedroom. He put a total stranger in his own bed. Awww, he’s still a sweetheart deep down.

The way he’s staring at me now is very different from the suspicious stare from a minute ago. His eyes are wide with shock…and maybe hope. “Do…do I do it?” he asks.

I bite my lower lip. “I don’t know how much I’m supposed to tell you. I don’t want to screw up my timeline, you know? I didn’t _mean_ to come here, it just happened.” But I’ve already told him some things, I can’t hold back a piece of information that means so much to him. “But yes. In the end, you do.”

“In the end? What does _that_ mean?” he demands.

I start to put a reassuring hand on his arm, because the instinct is automatic. I stop just shy of touching him, and drop it to the blanket instead. “That it won’t be as soon as you want. Or as easy.” I grimaced in apology for delivering that news. “But you’ll get him back, and eventually things will be good. I think you’re pretty happy with your life in 2014.”

“Easy?” Stan snorts, watching my hand warily in a way that tells me he noticed my aborted movement. “I been trying everything I can for seven years, I don’t think I’d call any of it _easy_.”

Despite myself, I smile. “So you believe me.”

“Maybe,” he hedges, but I can tell that he does. “So, what, you’re saying you _know_ me in the future?”

I nod slowly, not needing to accentuate my uneasiness with just how _weird_ this is. Half my instincts are telling me this is the man I love, the other half are saying that he’s a total stranger. Both halves are right.

Then suddenly, Stan throws back his head and laughs. It feels a little forced, but it’s genuine enough that most of the awkward tension dissolves. “That means I live to see fifty! Hold up, no, you said 2014? That’s more than _sixty_! I’m an old man!” He laughs more, still young enough to find the idea of himself as an old man entertaining.

I smile indulgently. Just how young _is_ this version of Stan? He was at least thirty when he came to Gravity Falls, I know that much. “I know I sound like I just walked out of _Back to the Future_ or something,” I say when he stops laughing and grins at me. “But what year is it?”

He shakes his head, amazed that anyone could fail to know such a thing. “1989. It’s February, uh, twenty-first.” He drums his fingers on his knees, then gives into temptation and asks what he’s been trying not to. “Come on, you really can’t tell me _anything_?”

I spread my hands helplessly. “I already did! You’re still alive. You get your brother back. You’re still in Gravity Falls. What more do you want?”

He crosses his arms over his chest and stares me down again. This time it feels more good-natured and less suspicious. I cross mine, too, and stare right back at him. He lifts his eyebrows. I lift mine. He cracks a smile, which I find it utterly impossible not to return. And I’d thought his charm was irresistible at 63. At 38, it’s absolutely devastating.

“So. Um.” Embarrassed by the way my heart just fluttered, I pull my eyes away from his and stare down at my lap. For a minute, I can’t think of a single practical thing to say. Apparently Stan can’t either, because other than a faint cough he stays silent. “This is your room, isn’t it?” I know it is, but don’t feel like I should mention that just now. Stan nods, but when I flick my eyes up from the blankets he averts his. “Thank you,” I tell sincerely. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“What, I was gonna let you die on the floor of my gift shop?” He tries to shrug it off.

“You could have,” I point out gently. “Or you could have dumped me at a doctor’s office or something. You didn’t have to put me in your own bed.”

He flaps his hand, dismissing the idea. “If I’d called a doctor I would’ve had to pay them. No way. I’m not _that_ nice.”

“You’re a little nice,” I tell him, willfully ignoring his attempts to convince me he isn’t. “Where did _you_ sleep?”

“Living room,” he says with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it. You’re okay now?”

“Mostly,” I say with a nod. “I don’t feel cold anymore, and my head’s a lot clearer, so I guess my body temperature is b…” I trail off, listening to myself in horror as I realize what I’ve said. My body temperature. Right now it’s normal, which is great. And I took my pill yesterday, which is damn lucky. I’m suddenly even more grateful that Ford developed those new, longer-lasting ones this summer. But eventually that pill is going to wear off, and if I’m not back in 2014 when it does, my body temperature being too low is _not_ going to be a concern.

Sometimes it really feels like the universe just wants me dead.

“What’s wrong?” Stan asks, watching me with fresh concern. “You look like you saw a ghost or something.”

I shake my head, swallowing forcefully. He doesn’t even know me, and he’s already been incredibly helpful. I can’t dump my slowly impending death on him, too. “I just…realized I have no idea how to get home.” I grimace at the thought. “And I’m pretty sure my ankle’s sprained. That’s why I nearly turned into an ice sculpture yesterday. It only took me half an hour to get _to_ the spot I tripped, but it took me almost two hours to make it back here.” I chance another quick, nervous look at him. “I’m sorry. It just occurred to me I have no idea what the hell to do.”

He looks at me in dismay for a moment, then sets his jaw and slams a look of determined unconcern onto his face. “And what do I look like, a charity?”

“No,” I say miserably, plucking at the edge of the blanket. “Of course not.” I know he’s a softer touch than he likes to let on, but I also know he hasn’t made it this far in life by giving hand-outs. The fact that I know about Ford and literally collapsed on his doorstep has gotten me past his defenses so far, but I can’t count on that lasting. “But I’ve got nothing but the clothes on my—um…where _are_ my clothes?”

“Drying in the bathroom,” he tells me, continuing to look unimpressed and unsympathetic.

“Right,” I say when I realize he’s not going to add anything to the conversation. “Anyway, I’ve got nothing. No money, no ID, no transportation.” I stare down at my hands again. “No friends.” With every passing minute, my situation feels more dire. Half the people I know and love aren’t even born yet. The rest of them are out in Michigan dealing with a Teagan who’s just a few months shy of her sixteenth birthday. I can’t walk, I don’t even have a coat, and if I don’t figure out what happened in the next 29 days I’m going to spontaneously combust.

I’m scared and lost and I don’t _want_ to start crying in front of Stan again but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stop myself. I take a deep breath. “There must be something I can do that’s worth a few nights of room and board,” I say, frustrated that I can’t think of what the heck it might _be_. “Do you need any help with the Shack? I can run a register.” I can also double as an attraction if you turn off enough lights, but that’s another card I shouldn’t be playing just yet.

He does me the courtesy of considering the offer, but ultimately shakes his head. “Business isn’t really booming in winter,” he points out.

“I can cook,” I offer hesitantly. “And clean.”

“You’re not gonna clean very well if you can’t walk,” he observes with a skeptical lift of the eyebrows. “And I got food.”

I know his definition of “food” and am not a fan, but I don’t press the issue. Instead I pout my lower lip slightly and try to make him crack another grin instead. “You’re not _really_ going to throw out an injured woman with nowhere else to turn, are you?”

He folds his arms over his chest. “Just watch me.”

I try to think quickly, but my brain is a little overwhelmed right now. I sigh and lean back on my elbows. “Can I at least impose on you for a hot drink before you throw me out, then?”

Stan blinks. “What, you’re just gonna accept it?”

I sense an advantage, and press it while trying not to let even a hint of a smile touch my lips. “What choice do I have? This is your home. I have nothing to offer. You’ve already saved me once. What am I supposed to do if you aren’t willing to do anything more—throw myself at your feet and beg?”

Hopefully I’m maintaining my poker face, but he lets his slip. Humor flashes in his eyes, and one side of his mouth quirks up enough to show me a tiny white slice of teeth. “Wouldn’t hurt,” he says with a faint shrug.

Damn it. That reaction is all it takes to pull a little smirk out of me in response. I let out a melodramatic sigh, laying the back of one hand along my forehead. Then I push the blankets off my lap, slide my feet very carefully sideways and out, and shimmy down the side of the bed to land on my knees. I press my forehead down to the dusty floorboards and wrap my hands around his ankles. “Please,” I beg loudly, trying to channel the way Dave used to ask for a new toy when he was three. “ _Please_ , please, please! You don’t know it yet, but you _know_ me. You can’t kick me out! I’ll die out there!”

Stan shakes his legs, trying to make me let go. I oblige, raising my head and finding a comfortable sitting position at his feet. I’m desperately hoping this has had some effect besides irritating him—but I’m also entertained by my own stupid antics. Just a little. “Is that enough groveling?” I ask in my normal tone, letting my face reflect my amusement.

He makes a show of thinking about it before fluttering his fingers like royalty. “Maybe a little more.”

I lay it on thick. “Please! I’ll be so grateful. And you’re so smart, I’m sure you can think of something I can do to pay you back. You went through the trouble of saving my life yesterday, give me a chance to show you how thankful I am! Please? I’ll do almost anything!” I sit up again and outright grin at him. “How about now?”

He shakes his head, looking a little baffled. “You’re not quite right, are you.”

I raise my eyebrows. “So I can stay?”

“Nope.” He gets to his feet, walking past me briskly toward the doorway.

“What?” I yelp. “But you said…” I stop, recalling that he never made any promises.

Stan smirks. “I said it couldn’t hurt. And it didn’t.” He winks at me. “Lemme get your clothes.”

I level my best death stare at him, the kind that I _always_ use on Stan when he’s being obnoxious like this. It never fails to make him laugh.

Or at least, it never fails to make _my_ Stan laugh. _This_ version just turns and walks out of the room.

I rake frantically through my own thoughts. I’d been so sure my goofiness was working! I’m still not quite sure it isn’t—but my not being sure is exactly the problem. I can’t just deal with him the way I’d deal with modern-day Stan and assume it’ll work. What do I know about him that’s a _constant_? What does he care about? Family, of course—but I can’t exactly bring Ford back twenty years early for him. Money—but I don’t _have_ any. I…wait.

“Amazon,” I say when he walks back into the room with my shorts and blouse. “Ebay. Paypal.”

He stops in front of me, but gives me a hand up instead of dropping my clothes in my lap. “You just keep getting crazier, don’t you.”

“I’m not crazy,” I tell him levelly. “They’re companies.” I pause for a beat, giving my words weight. “Companies that are going to be very lucrative by 2014.”

“Never heard of any of them,” he says dismissively, but I see the light go on behind his eyes.

“Exactly,” I tell him, allowing myself a smile. “But when you do, I’d suggest investing in them.”

Stan stares at me for a very long second. I cock my head to the side and meet his eyes. I can already tell I’ve succeeded. He gives a fractional nod, and keeps nodding. He starts to smile. “Got any more where that came from?”

“Maybe a few,” I lie with wide, innocent eyes. In truth, I can’t remember any other companies that I know will do well except Apple, and I’m pretty sure they’ve already had their IPO. “If you throw me back out into the snow, I guess you’ll never find out.”

“I’m gonna need you to write this down for me,” he says, suddenly helping me back into bed like a real gentleman. “You rest that ankle. I’ll go get a pen and paper.”

“And something warm to drink!” I call after him as he leaves the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Stan brings me some ibuprofen along with a scalding hot cup of coffee. I send him back for a cup of water, because it’s dawned on me that I don’t need to pee. Going twenty hours without needing the bathroom seems crazy to me, so I’m probably dehydrated on top of everything else. Maybe between coffee and water, the low-grade pounding in my head will recede.

I write down _Amazon, Paypal, Ebay_ on the notepad he brought me, because I really _am_ grateful for everything he’s doing. I’m a little uneasy about giving him information that could net him a lot of money, because I don’t want to change the future. But I’m here, and I had to tell him where I came from, so maybe all bets are already off in that department. I don’t know. Time travel is supposed to be just science fiction.

I pass him the list when he returns with my water, tossing back the pills and downing the entire glass quickly. Then I clutch the painfully hot mug between my hands, savoring the steam coming off it onto my face. He’s always made the best coffee.

I’m somewhat surprised that he sits on the foot of the bed, silently keeping me company as I blow on the top of the mug and take tiny sips. After a minute I pause, setting the mug down on the table beside me and rubbing my toasty hands against each other. “How long was I out last night?” I ask, trying to make conversation. “I have no idea what time I got here yesterday…or what time it is now.”

“Don’t know much, do you,” he remarks in good humor. I guess now that he’s making money off me, he can stop pretending he doesn’t enjoy the company.

“I know plenty,” I say haughtily, sticking my nose in the air.

“Oh, yeah,” Stan agrees with a sparkle in his eyes. “You’re great at getting lost in the snow and getting yourself into trouble.”

I can’t help smiling. “I thought you said you didn’t know me yet.”

He barks out a short laugh. “So what, this is a regular deal? That whole damsel in distress act must really work for you.”

I narrow my eyes and pick the mug up again. “I’ll have you know that I once brained a guy with a spare tire jack when he tried to abduct me.” _Brained_ is a slight exaggeration, and if I’d actually killed the man in question I doubted I’d be able to sleep at night. “Then I took his gun and shot his friend in the knee.” Thigh, but whatever.

Stan nods faintly, letting me see that he’s impressed. “No kidding!”

Shifting the mug to just one hand, I extend one of my wrists to show him the faint scar that circles it. “See? Took me two hours of working my hands back and forth to get free.”

“Not bad,” he admits, “but have you ever had to chew your way out of a trunk?”

“Um, _no_ ,” I answer with repressed amusement. “And given you still appear to have all your teeth, I doubt _you_ have, either.”

“Nah, it was a Colombian car.” He flashes me a grin full of teeth that might not be perfectly straight, but certainly look intact. “They make ‘em cheap.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. He _has_ mentioned Colombia to me before, but I still think he’s exaggerating. Oh well, so am I. “So what you’re saying is you’re just as good at getting into trouble as I am?” I ask before taking another sip of coffee. It’s still hot enough to burn my tongue. It’s wonderful. My stomach rumbles, demanding I give it more.

Stan looks almost offended. “Course not! Well. Maybe a little. But I can get myself back _out_ of it, too.” He stops bragging to give me a piercing stare. “How come you don’t know all this already, if you know me in the future?”

Without removing the mug from my lips, I lift my eyebrows again. “Why, do you usually run around sharing details of your criminal misadventures with every person you meet?”

That brings him up short. “No. Well, uh. I mean. You said you knew this place was Ford’s, so I kinda figured…” He spreads his hands wide.

I lower the mug again, smiling slyly. “You figured I’d know you faked your own death after you took over his identity? Because you’ve been banned from half the states in the union for running various scams?”

“Half?” he repeats, working up a good scowl. “Who told you _half_?”

I waggle a hand to indicate this was a rough estimate. “More or less. Anyway, of course I know who you really are. What do you _think_ is going to happen when you get Ford back?”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to answer, then shuts it again. He looks vaguely defeated. “I dunno. To be honest, um, what’d you say your name was again?”

I try not to hold this lapse against him. I’ve said a lot of other, more interesting things since giving him my name. “Teagan.”

“Right!” Suddenly he doesn’t seem to know where to look. “Well Teagan, to be honest I was starting to think I’ll _never_ get him back. I got no idea where to go next from here. It’s been years— _years_ —and I’ve tried every damn thing I can think of. I’m just not smart enough to run his crazy machine. I can’t give up, but…” He shrugs and stares at his hands. “Seems like a lost cause.” Then he lifts his eyes, and his face brightens. “But I really do it, huh?”

Knowing that it takes him another twenty years of futile efforts feels like a pin jabbing into my heart. At least I don’t have to tell him that part. At least I can give him some reassurance. “You really do,” I say, hurriedly taking another sip of coffee to hide how weak my smile is.

He lies back on the bed, perpendicular to my feet, and crosses his arms behind his head. “Well _that’s_ a relief,” he says to the ceiling.

I enjoy a few more swallows of coffee. The silence feels almost comfortable, considering I’m half-dressed, injured, and twenty-five and a half years off from where I should be.

“So you’re seriously saying I’m still here in twenty-five years?” he inquires when my coffee is almost gone. “Running this place? Even after Ford’s back?”

“You did try to retire,” I answer, unable to quite keep the fondness out of my voice. I’ve teased him about it enough times, it’s difficult not to. “But you couldn’t stay away.”

Stan chuckles to himself. “From _this_ place?”

I let my shoulders rise and fall. “Why would you want to leave?”

He sits back up. “Why _wouldn’t_ I?”

“I guess you come up with some reasons, as you get older,” I answer mysteriously.

“Huh,” he snorts, and flops back onto his back.

It’s tempting to ask him how _he_ envisions his life going. I know Stan always wanted to explore, and get rich, and probably have loads of daring adventures with narrow escapes and beautiful women. The trouble is that sort of life isn’t nearly as fulfilling as he thinks it is. And he _has_ to know it’s not very practical.

“So what about you?” he asks after we’ve both been lost in our own thoughts for a little bit. “You said you work here someday? At the Shack?”

“Part time,” I nod. “I used to be a secretary at a grade school, but…” Crap, how do I put this? “There have been a lot of life changes lately. Anyway, I like helping out at the Shack.”

“Yeah?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him preen slightly. “Great boss, am I?”

It’s my turn to snort. “No. You’re a conman and a hard-ass. But that’s what makes the place a success.”

“Hm.” Stan digests that information. “So I’m a visionary, is what you’re saying.”

My mouth twists up in a smirk. “It wasn’t. But it might actually be kind of true.”

He turns his head toward me and his face lights up with a real, genuine smile. My heart melts—I’ve only been gone a day, and I already miss that smile. It’s…sweet. That’s the only word I’ve got for it. The rest of the world gets charming, or entertaining, or confidant. Only his family gets smiles like this, though.

“So go on,” he says again. “What’s your story? You’re staying here, I might as well know a thing or two.”

I blush slightly. “Nah, I’m not that interesting. We’ve been talking ten minutes, and you already know all my best stories.”

“Oh, what, _now_ you’re shy?”

“I’m not _shy_ ,” I object. “I just…don’t know where to start. Someone gives you an open invitation to summarize your life, what do you do?”

“You start talking,” he tells me amiably.

I sigh. This feels unfairly one-sided, but it’s also kind of nice that he wants to know something about me. “Well, I’m from Michigan,” I begin throwing out random facts. “I have two teenage sons. They like to hang out with your—” I realize I’m about to give away more unnecessary information, and wince. “Crap.”

Stan’s eyes get wide. “I have _kids_?”

Fuuuuuuuck. What do I say _now_? The truth, I guess. “Not that I know of,” I say with an apologetic smile. “But you do have a great-niece and nephew who spend their summers out here.”

His brow furrows. “Ford’s grandkids?” he asks doubtfully.

I manage not to laugh at that reaction—barely. “Sherman’s,” I correct him.

“Ah.” He relaxes. “ _That_ makes sense. Ford’s awful with girls, even when he had _me_ as a wingman.”

Imagining young Stan trying to help his twin score a date is so entertaining that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop the laughter. He notices anyway, and waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, so you know him.”

I laugh. “I plead the fifth.” He grins at me. “Anyway, my kids like hanging out with your visiting relatives. Dave—my oldest—he’s getting his license next year, but for now I spend a lot of my free time driving them to school and friends’ and other activities. We’re…well, we _used_ to be close. I guess we still are, but they’re teenagers now. It’s different. Some days I love how independent they’re becoming, and some days I miss getting snuggles from little people.”

I smile wistfully, and cover it up with more coffee. It’s not even that hot anymore. “So. Um. Hm. I’m an only child. Majored in history in college, got married about a year after graduation, got a job at the local elementary school, popped out a couple of kids. It was a pretty good life.”

“Uh-oh,” says Stan.

I tip my head to the side. “Uh-oh?”

“There’s a _but_ coming, right?” he clarifies. “You’re talking in the past tense. So _something_ went wrong.”

“You got me,” I admit. “Long story short, my husband died, we moved out to Oregon, I now glow in the dark and work a boring desk job in a barrel company.”

“Thought you said you work at the Shack.”

“I help out there sometimes,” I correct him. “My husband didn’t have _that_ big an insurance policy. I still need a regular 9-5.”

“So where does the tire jack story come into that boring suburban life?” he asks. He actually sounds interested, not judgmental, but I narrow my eyes anyway.

“Boring? _Thanks_.”

“Hey,” he shrugs, “I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

I think about arguing the point, but he’s right. I liked my life before Gravity Falls, but it doesn’t exactly make for an exciting narrative. “That was just in the last year. Somebody thought a girl who glows in the dark might be worth some money. I said I didn’t always glow, right? That’s a new thing, too. I promise you, I was very boring until I met—moved out here.” I hope he doesn’t notice my quick switch there, cutting myself off just as I was about to say _before I met you_.

“You suck at telling stories,” he says—which isn’t exactly flattering, but it’s not asking me for more details about the future, either.

“Well excuse me,” I shoot back, “but I wasn’t exactly prepared for this. I appreciate the interest, I guess, but I’m a little out of my element here. I’ve never time-travelled before, I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours, my ankle hurts, my head hurts, and I almost froze to death yesterday. My storytelling abilities are not at their best right now.” I pause, and reflect. “Actually, I don’t think _any_ of my abilities are at their best right now.”

“I dunno, you’re pretty good at begging,” he points out with a wink.

I roll my eyes. “Can we save the life story for later? Maybe after I’ve had a hot shower and something to eat?”

He looks like he’s about to say something off-color, but thinks better of it. “Can you make it to the bathroom?”

I push off the covers and slide my legs gingerly over the side of the bed. “Not with a lot of dignity, but I’ll get there.” I stand carefully, not quite daring to test my weight on my bad ankle. “Point me in the right direction.”

“Wait, you—oh boy—right _now_?” he asks, taken aback. “Yeah, um, okay. Lemme see if there’s any, uh. Extra towels.” He hurriedly gets up and retreats from the room. “Down this hall, left, then right.”

I’m not sure if he’s in a hurry because his bathroom hasn’t been cleaned in two years, or because he doesn’t want me to feel like he’s staring at me while I hop awkwardly down the long hallway. Wait, scratch that, of _course_ I know why he’s in a hurry. And it’s not either of those things, because he’s got no shame and not much in the way of consideration. He’s either hiding something or drilling a hole in the shower wall.

That thought makes me grin, which is good because otherwise I’d be wincing with every painful limp toward the bathroom. From ahead of me, I hear a toilet flushing. Oh. Well. Maybe he just has _some_ sense of propriety at this point.

I feel like all the color has probably leeched out of my face by the time I get to the bathroom door. The muscles in my right leg are shaking from doing the work of both, and my left ankle feels like it’s been injected with fire ants. I’m already cold again, and my headache is going strong. My stomach doesn’t feel wonderful, either. I sit down hurriedly on the edge of the tub, even though my guess about it being years since the bathroom had a proper cleaning was clearly correct.

Stan’s watching me like he expects me to pass out on him again. I glare defiantly. “I’m fine.”

He holds up his hands to ward off my sharp tone. “Did I say anything?”

“You were thinking it,” I mutter. I lean around the shower curtain, hoping there’s at least shampoo and soap. Conditioner would be too much to hope for.

“Oh, so now you’re from the future _and_ psychic?” he asks sarcastically.

It looks like the cheapest, most generic shampoo they had at the store, but at least my low expectations are met. I let my eyes scan along the sink, toilet, and counter. “Is that a clean towel?”

The fact that I don’t respond to his snarky comment seems to confirm for him that I’m going to topple over again at any minute. “Why don’t you take a nice hot _bath_ ,” he says, heavy emphasis on the last word. “Try not to drown, alright? I’ll go dig up some food.”

Much as I don’t like showing weakness, that’s pretty solid advice. I offer a weak smile and lean back to turn on the tap, almost overbalancing in the process. Stan continues to watch me warily as I poke at the warming water and put in the drain cover. When the tub starts to fill and he’s still there, I turn and raise my eyebrows in what I hope is an austere fashion. “I can get undressed without an audience,” I say pointedly.

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Yeah, well, you couldn’t last night” on his way out. He shuts the door behind him, and while the tub continues to fill I debate the merits of getting up to lock it. No, not worth it. I ditch my underwear, bra, and the borrowed shirt, and slide into the tub. The water’s hot enough to hurt, and I exhale slowly as my skin turns pink.

I only rest and enjoy it for a few minutes, recovering from the rigors of moving around and waiting for my headache to subside. Then I sit up and get to work making myself look and feel human. I caught a passing glimpse of myself in the mirror on my way to the tub, and don’t want to keep looking like that disheveled wreck. I scrub all over with the old bar of soap in the corner of the tub, pausing to really examine my ankle. There’s an ugly bruise near my heel, and the skin all around the area is taut over the swelling. Not encouraging.

At least I can do something about my face and hair. I wash away any traces of smeared make-up (not that I ever wear that much) and wash my long hair thoroughly. When I feel clean and warm to the point of overheating, I pull the plug and haul my dripping self onto the ancient bathmat. I can just reach the towel if I stretch. I have no choice but to put the same clothes back on after I’m toweled off, and my hair is going to be air-drying, but I’m able to balance on one foot long enough to comb it out.

Stan isn’t back yet, and I realize I don’t know where to go without him. Am I supposed to go back to his bedroom? Or should I make my way to the kitchen or tv room?

I really don’t want to deal with the stairs, but my stomach is alternating between queasy and starving. And I don’t really see Stan letting me keep his bed indefinitely. Besides, if I go back to bed that’s just proving that I’m an invalid, which I’m just stubborn enough to refuse to do. Leaning against the wall, I limp down the hall to the stairway. The wooden steps are coated in a layer of dust, kind of defeating the purpose of my bath, but all the same I scooch down them one at a time on my butt.

There’s no sofa. I’ve been imagining the living room the way it is in 2014, when it’s furnished mostly by Soos’ family. There’s a big floral sofa, doilies, framed photos, and stacks of games and dvds. Right now, though, there’s an empty fish tank giving off an unpleasant smell, a recliner and rug that have already seen better days, and a few dirty dishes stacked on top of what looks like a dinosaur skull. I’ve been assuming Stan slept on a sofa last night, but it must have been the recliner. Which means if he wants his bed back, I’m sleeping in a dirty recliner.

I remind myself firmly that even a dirty recliner is a lot better than a case of hypothermia. I sit down in it, pushing the lever so I can elevate my foot, and pull the blanket draped over the back down onto my legs. It’s actually pretty comfortable.

And having Stan walk into the living room to find me already settled in is fantastic. The way his eyes widen and stops in his tracks is adorable. He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. “Just make yourself at home, why don’t you.”

“Thank you,” I simper, snuggling into the plush back of the chair, “don’t mind if I do.”

He remains where he is. “You know that’s my chair.”

“It’s the _only_ chair,” I remind him. “I thought you’d be glad I was out of your bed.”

He takes a few steps closer. “Well now that I see what you look like cleaned up, I kinda want you back _in_ it,” he says with a broad grin.

This time it’s _my_ eyes that almost fall out of my head. I’ve been comfortable with Stan for so long, hearing his terrible attempts at pick-up lines all over again is surreal. “Please don’t,” I say weakly.

His smile fades, but he shrugs and shoves some old plates to the side so that he can sit down on the skull. “Hey, can’t blame me for trying.” He flinches at nothing, then looks at me sideways and starts to smile again. “Least you didn’t slap me!”

The fact that he’s actually _listened_ is a huge relief. “That wouldn’t be very grateful of me now, would it.” I offer a smile, even as I’m adjusting the blanket to show as little skin as possible. “And I’m…maybe a little flattered. But I’m completely reliant on you right now. Don’t make it weird.”

“Huh,” he says, almost to himself. “Hadn’t thought about it like that.” He clears his throat. “You want some toast, or a sandwich? There’s peanut butter, bread, and some cans of meat.”

“Any jam or honey?” I ask.

“Strawberry.”

“PBJ and another glass of water, please.” I hesitate. “Sorry to make you wait on me. Should I get it myself?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He hops back to his feet almost too quickly. “I’m getting hungry, too.”

“What time is it?” I realize he never answered that question earlier, and look around the room. There must be a clock in here somewhere!

“Eleven,” he says over his shoulder as he heads through to the kitchen. “You were out about eighteen hours. I was starting to think of ways to market a mysterious woman turning up and then dropping dead in the Shack.”

“Thanks,” I call back sarcastically, but I’m smiling. He may have shaggy brown hair, no glasses, no memory, and less scars and wrinkles, but the more time I spend with him the more I feel like he’s same guy I already know. I don’t believe he’d have thrown me out earlier, either. He was probably trying to get as much value as he could out of me. As much bang for his buck…considering he just blatantly hit on me, I find myself wishing my mind hadn’t come up with an analogy that uses the word _bang_. I can feel the heat rushing into my cheeks as my brain replays what he said. Back in his bed. Not remotely subtle. Really quite flattering. And even though I’m in love with the 2014 version of Stan Pines, part of me can’t deny that the 1989 model is a little shinier.

I love Stan’s gray hair. I love all his scars. I love the way he puts his glasses and hearing aid on the bedside table every night. I love the way his body feels right against mine. But would I be theoretically interested in getting a better look at the version with less loose skin and liver spots? I’ll never admit it aloud…but yes, kind of.

Still, moot point. I can be flattered and still keep my distance. I already have a boyfriend in my own timeline, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything. What I need to be _doing_ , is focusing on finding a way to get back to him.

1989 Stan walks back in with a plate and glass. He passes me the glass of water, sets the plate in my lap, and grabs the second sandwich from it before taking a seat.

“Thanks,” I tell him before cramming a quarter of the sandwich into my mouth. It tastes incredible. I chew and swallow as quickly as possible, taking another bite before I’m completely finished with the first. All of a sudden I’m starving. After devouring half the sandwich, I take a few large sips of water to get the peanut butter feeling out of my mouth. “Strawberry’s my favorite jam.”

“Mine too,” Stan answers with his mouth full.

“Maybe if I rest up all afternoon, I can cook us something for dinner?” I offer tentatively.

“Good luck!” he responds. “It’s been snowing since last night. Even I’m not crazy enough to head out to the store in this.”

“You don’t have any groceries?” I ask, puzzled. Is that what he’s trying to tell me?

“I’ve got strawberry jam, and peanut butter, and bread, and canned meat,” he repeats, as if this ought to be self-explanatory.

I make a face. “That’s _it_?”

“Listen, you don’t like it, there’s the door.” He scowls at me.

I wince. “No offense intended. Remember my point of view—I live in a house full of boys. If I ever let the pantry get that low, there’d be a riot.”

He grunts, but looks placated.

I take another, smaller, bite of my sandwich. “So is now the part where one of us asks how we’re going to get me back to my own time?”

He’s already finished his sandwich somehow. “You really got no ideas?”

I run my hands over my face, trying to think. “No! I don’t even know how I got here.”

Stan looks thoughtful. “You know, it’s pretty weird. I’ve read through Ford’s whole journal so many times I could give it to you from memory, and he never said anything in it about time travel.”

“First of all, you know that’s not the only journal he wrote,” I point out gently. “And secondly, Ford doesn’t know everything.”

“That’s another weird thing,” he adds. “Being able to _talk_ to anyone. About all that.”

I give him a wry, sympathetic little smile. “Must be hard having to keep pretty much every important thing in your life a secret.”

“You’re creeping me out, crazy lady,” he warns with only a hint of joking.

I shrug helplessly. “Sorry.” I take another sip of water. “You know, most people call me ‘Teagan.’”

That gets a chuckle out of him. “Yeah, well, I’m not most people.” His shoulders sag, and he stares at the silent tv as if he’s not even seeing it. “Keeping secrets isn’t that hard. Only one person I was ever really close to anyhow. And he’s the one I lost.”

A second’s hesitation might make me think better of it, but I put my hand on his knee without even pausing to consider it. The pain and anger in his voice are so fresh and strong they’re almost palpable. He’s told me, in our own time, how hurt he was by all the fallout with his twin when they were younger. It’s one of the reasons it took _me_ so long to really forgive Ford for everything in their past. But hearing about it in the past tense is a lot different from seeing the raw emotions in his face right now.

It dawns on me that there has been literally _no one_ to say something as simple as _it wasn’t your fault._ Carrying that sort of guilt around for—how many years did he say? Seven? That realization cuts me somewhere deep inside, and all I want to do is hold him close and tell him it’s going to be alright. My poor love.

“It’s not—” I begin, but have to pause and clear my throat. “It’s not your fault,” I manage to say without betraying how close I am to tears. “It was an accident.”

Stan stares down at his knee, where my hand is still resting. The self-conscious side of me wants to snatch it back, but the part of me that cares about emotional damage and suffering won’t hear of it. Actually—wait. I lean in his direction, stretching my hand out enough that I can thread my fingers between his. He won’t look at me, but he accepts the gesture.

“I know about what happened,” I say to the back of his head as he stubbornly stares the other direction. “In high school, _and_ when he asked you to come here. You both made mistakes. But you didn’t deserve what happened, and you can’t take all the blame.”

“Don’t see anyone else around to take it,” he tells the wall angrily. His fingers tighten around mine, and I run my thumb soothingly along the back of his hand.

“Stan.” I say his name softly but firmly. “It was an accident. He didn’t mean to burn you, and you didn’t mean to push him through.”

“You gonna say anything useful, or keep mouthing off about stuff you don’t understand?”

A year ago, I would have flinched from the acid in his tone, but even if the bitterness is stronger than usual this is a mood I know well enough. “Oh, so you _were_ trying to get rid of the one person you love more than anything in the world?” Sometimes I _still_ think he loves Ford more than me. Dating a twin is complicated.

His lifts his shoulders, as if they can serve as a wall to keep sympathy out. And yet he’s still clinging to my hand. “Maybe. I was pissed at him.”

“You had a right to be,” I inform him calmly. “He reached out after more than a decade of silence, and it was only to use you. I can’t even imagine how much that hurt.”

He shoots an angry glance over his shoulder at me. “Quit talking like you were there. You weren’t.” His brows pull down, but the scowl transforms into confusion. “This is stuff you shouldn’t know. Even if you’re from the future.” His eyes narrow, and he untangles his hand from mine. “Who are you? Some lady who works at the Shack…or says she does. No way future me would tell you all about that day. Neither would Ford.” He gets to his feet, towering over me. “Just what kinda scam are you trying to pull? _Can_ you read minds?”

Well, that’s what I get for overstepping. I should have known better. How do I get out of this one? “I can’t read minds.” I try to keep my voice even, but it wobbles. “And I don’t know what to tell you without giving away too much of the future. There’s so many pieces in play, so much is different then. But I _do_ know about it. I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.” I swallow nervously. “Or not.”

“Giving away the future, blah blah blah,” Stan growls, glaring at me. “If you know so much about it, how about you help me get him back. Right now.” I flinch as he reaches down abruptly and grabs me by my waist. He lifts me easily, throwing me over his shoulder, and stalks out of the room. “Let’s go.”

This isn’t the first time he’s unceremoniously lifted me up and thrown or carried me. He’s quite good at it, actually, and most of the time I find it very entertaining. (The time he threw his back out, not so much.) Right now, though, I’m not in love with it. My t-shirt is riding up, the blood is rushing to my head, and he’s got his hands all over my bare thighs. “Put me down, you… _caveman_!” I protest angrily, trying to twist around or push myself so I’m not hanging upside-down. “I’ve only been in that stupid lab _twice_! I’m not a fucking scientist!”

“Yeah, well,” says Stan, proceeding into the gift shop and heading for the vending machine, “I’ve been trying for seven years and getting nowhere. So I think now it’s your turn.”

“My turn,” I repeat blankly as he punches in the secret code that leads to the hidden basement beneath the Shack. “You want _me_ to try and get your brother back.”

“Yep.”

Being carried down the stairs isn’t a pleasant experience, and Stan’s not really going out of his way to be gentle. I haven’t taken a step, but my ankle is still on fire again by the time we get to the bottom. “How do you know I won’t make things _worse_?” I ask plaintively as he dumps me into a chair in front of a big array of levers and buttons.

“Lady, I been trying _seven years_ ,” he says, stretching out his arms. “I don’t think you can do anything that’s gonna make it _worse_ , do you?”

I wince, because I’m not so sure of that. I’m garbage at science and technology—and clearly garbage at time travel, too. But he’s not going to believe me. I stare up at him from the chair, look back to the bank of instruments in front of me, back to Stan. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

“Welcome to my world,” he says curtly.

There’s a book lying open on the surface in front of me. I pick it up and thumb through it, trying to buy myself some time. Do I even dare mess with this? I’m not supposed to be here. What if I do something that sabotages everything Stan’s been doing? What if I stop Ford coming back? Or, just as serious, what if I somehow bring him home twenty years too soon?

On the other hand, do I really dare _not_ mess with this? I know how Stan can get. If I give him any more reason not to trust me, he’ll have no issue throwing me out on my ear. I might make it into town if I start limping quick enough. I might not. Then again, if he doesn’t trust me, he might not want to risk me walking around town. He might lock me up here, instead. I still have no plan on how to get back home, and only a month to figure it out. I can’t imagine that will go any better if I’m locked up in the Shack with no help.

If I say yes, I’m risking the life I know in the future. If I say no, I’m risking _having_ a future. Shit. This _sucks_. But there’s really only one choice.

“No,” I say, setting the book back down. “Much as I would love to help you reunite with Ford sooner, and as much as I want your goodwill, there is no way I’m touching this thing. It’s too risky.”

“Then I hope you like 1989,” he tells me stubbornly, and starts walking for the door. “By the way, there’s no bathroom down here.”

“You stupid, stubborn asshole!” I shout after him. “Don’t you get that everything I do here risks screwing up _your_ future, too? Just help me get home and get out of your life before I fuck up everything!”

He stops a few steps from the doorway and turns back toward me. “I don’t _care_ about my future,” he snaps. “I care about wasting seven years in this dump. I care about getting Ford back so I can get on with my life. I got nothing to lose.”

He walks out and locks the door.

Well, fuck.

I could have handled that better.

I could have handled that a _lot_ better.

Really, I can’t even blame him for not caring about my future. I’ve been trying so hard to avoid giving him any details that I haven’t given him anything to look forward to. In fact, from his point of view almost everything I’ve said is bad. Yes, I told him that he gets Ford back—but I was vague enough that he probably knows it’s going to be a long time yet before he succeeds. I told him he’s still in Gravity Falls, which at this point in his life is the opposite of what he wants for himself. I told him he doesn’t have any kids, and while I’m not sure he wants any I know he doesn’t want to be alone forever.

Also I told him to quit flirting with me and then let on that I felt sorry for him. Oh, and called him stupid just now. Nice one, Teagan. Guess you can add “time travel” to the list of things you suck at.

I lean back in the chair, staring glumly at the console without really seeing it. A wash of homesickness hits me and I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging myself. I miss _my_ Stan. I miss Dave. I miss Nicky. I miss Horace. I miss my bed. I miss the internet.

How did I wind up here?


	4. Chapter 4

I spend the next few hours thinking about answers to that question, and feeling even worse as a result. Clearly, if there’s an answer to be found, it’s out there in the woods, in the spot where I fell into the past. Maybe it’s that weird measuring tape I picked up. Maybe it’s something to do with the specific spot I fell. Maybe it’s something around there I didn’t even notice. But I can’t think of any realistic explanation besides the location I was in.

And of course because I was hurt and confused and cold, I’d done the stupidest thing in the world and walked _away_ from that location. I’d be lucky to find the right spot again even if I hadn’t been in that state when I left it, and Stan told me it’s been snowing all night. Which means any traces of a path I might have made have been obliterated.

So I have one lead, and no way of getting to it. Even if there _is_ a trail and I can convince Stan to let me out of here, I’m in no condition to go running around the woods. My best bet _would_ be to wait until spring, and then enlist his help searching in the direction I know I came from. Only 1) he has no interest in helping me and 2) thanks to my mutated bioluminescent biology, I’ll be dead by spring.

I’m grateful, again, that Ford developed those longer-lasting pills. If he hadn’t, I’d be looking at an almost certain death sentence right now. At least with the month-long variety, I have a chance. A lot can change in a month. I’m counting on that.

Stan eventually comes back to check on me. I turn in the chair, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at him defiantly. He matches my glare from the doorway. “You gotta pee, or what?”

Unfortunately, I do. “Do I get to limp painfully up them one at a time, or get thrown over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes again?” I ask coolly.

He flashes me an insincere grin. “Your choice, sweetie.”

I close my eyes briefly against the melancholy that sweeps through me at that. Of _course_ he’d sarcastically choose the same pet name that he used when we first met—meet in the future—whatever.

The emotion passes, and I push myself upright. Hopefully I can get some more ibuprofen while I’m upstairs. “I’ll walk,” I tell him. It’s the stupid, stubborn thing to do, but I just can’t bring myself to let him carry me right now.

“Have it your way.” He holds the door open as I limp the length of room, tapping his foot impatiently as I haul myself laboriously up the steps. I’m mentally kicking myself for the choice by the time I make it into the gift shop, especially since I’ve just remembered the bathroom is on the second floor of the house. There’s another one off the gift shop, though. I hobble in that direction.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Stan asks from behind me.

I shoot him my blackest glare. “The bathroom.”

He jerks his head toward the one I’m headed for. “That one’s reserved for staff and paying customers.”

My face goes slack with surprise as I study his face. He _can’t_ be serious. There’s no way my Stan was ever that sadistic. “I am staff,” I say lamely.

He gives me another very insincere grin. “Not in my time, you’re not.”

He’s serious. I feel like I might burst into tears all over again. “Well there’s no staff or paying customers _here_ ,” I point out through gritted teeth. “And if you try to make me climb another set of stairs for no reason, I’m just going to stand here and go in the middle of your precious gift shop.”

He blinks at me, and a laugh starts deep in his throat. “You _would_ too, wouldn’t you. I like your style, crazy lady.”

Still shaking my head angrily at him, I limp into the nearest bathroom and pee for approximately a hundred years. There’s a small mirror above the sink, and I study my reflection as I wash my hands. Still not as much of a disaster as I was before my bath, but I’ve certainly looked better. My hair is dry by now, white streaks standing out against the chestnut. I’d kill for a hair tie to pull it back. Pain has drained most of the color from my face again, and the lines around my eyes are standing out. I _look_ like I’m 41. Which means for the first time in my life, I look older than Stan Pines.

I give my head a little shake, as if that can make me stop focusing on the weirdness. I dry my hands, limp back out into the gift shop, and promptly collapse on the floor. Well, not _collapse_. I sink down onto it with all the grace I can muster, which admittedly is not a lot. My jailer is poking at something behind the register. “Do I get anything else to eat and drink?” I ask icily. “Maybe more ibuprofen? A blanket and pillow, since I assume I’m going to be sleeping down there? Or are we going for the full prison experience here? Can I look forward to getting shanked tomorrow?”

He makes a face. “Jeez, you act like _I’m_ the bad guy here!”

I lift my eyebrows haughtily. The fact that I’m sitting on the floor in his old t-shirt probably spoils the affect. “You _did_ lock me in your basement.”

Stan folds his arms over his chest. “What would _you_ do to someone who turned up on your doorstep knowing way too much?”

I consider that. “If I thought they were a threat to my family, probably lock them up,” I admit. “But you can’t try to tell me you think I’m a _threat_. Again, I’m completely reliant on you. My chances of survival if I try to leave are somewhere between zero and laughable. I even thought we were getting along okay. What did I do to mess that up? I was trying to be _nice_.”

“You know too much,” he repeats stubbornly, but for just a moment his stony expression wavers.

“I’m _from_ the _future_ ,” I respond.

“You _still_ know too much.” He hits me with a suspicious glare.

“Dude,” I say, staring him down and spreading my hands. “ _Why would I lie_?”

“If I knew _that_ , I’d know if I could trust you,” he retorts.

“Well I think you _do_ trust me,” I say, folding my own arms. “Because otherwise, locking me up with your only access point to the portal you’ve spent seven years working on is way crazier than anything _I’ve_ said.”

“You can’t make it any worse,” he snaps, but I see another flicker of uncertainty.

“Like hell I couldn’t! If you don’t believe I’m who I say, then how do you know I’m not here with the specific goal of sabotaging that machine?”

His hostility takes on a distinct edge of confusion. “What’re you trying to convince me to do? Kill you?”

“No, trust me!”

“Yeah, well, you stink at it!”

My temper flares, probably because I know he’s right. “You just don’t like to think that at some point in the future, you actually start _trusting_ people!”

Stan glares at me ferociously enough that I actually shrink back a bit. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” he snarls, “but you’re going back in the basement.” He comes around the counter and moves like he’s going to pick me up again.

I scoot backward, hoping the angry way my lip is twitching will keep him at bay. “You don’t have to force me. I’d _rather_ go than stay up here trying to make you see sense.” I push myself to my feet, slamming my full weight onto my left leg in my fit of temper. A cry of pain comes out too fast for me to think of repressing it, and I’m back on my butt in a matter of seconds. Tears of frustration sting my eyes.

Stan reaches out toward me again, and I flinch. “Don’t touch me, damn it!”

“I was just gonna give you a hand up,” he growls at me, taking a step back. “But fine, do it yourself.”

“I don’t need your help,” I say in direct contradiction of all the facts. I get to my feet more carefully this time, and hop my way over to the vending machine. Without a word, Stan punches in the code, holds the secret door for me, and follows me down the stairs. “You do trust me!” I shout after him as he locks the door. “You’re just being _lazy_!”

Almost as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Damn it, Teagan! Stop making things worse! Just keep your mouth shut and your temper in check, is that really so hard?

It is, though. I’m scared, and alone, and the pain in my ankle is fierce again. I almost died yesterday, and I might die in a few weeks. I’m frustrated because if I know Stan as well as I think I do, why am I doing such a terrible job of dealing with his younger self? It’s still _him_. He should be my ally, not my enemy right now. Having the man I love so close and yet so out of reach makes this all seem so much worse.

I find a pen and piece of blank paper in a drawer, and soothe my feelings by composing a letter. Who knows, if I hide it someplace smart maybe future Stan or future Soos will stumble across it. I don’t know if time travel works that way, but I don’t know that it _doesn’t_ , either. Maybe I can stash this note in a place they won’t find until I go missing in 2014, and they’ll turn up here and now to rescue me.

_Stan,_ I write after chewing on the pen for a few minutes. _I don’t know what happened. I went for a walk in the woods—I know, I know, I should know better by now—and I tripped and sprained my ankle. While I was sitting there swearing a blue streak, I picked up a dirty old tape measure. Don’t know if that’s relevant or not, but right afterward there was a blinding flash and just like that I was sitting in a pile of snow. Same spot, but in snow. I tried calling you and the kids for help, but there was no service. I guess that’s because I’m in 1989, before cell phone towers were built._

I stop writing to think about my phone. I haven’t seen it since waking up in Stan’s bed this morning. It’s possible it’s still in the pocket of my shorts, since I haven’t attempted to put yesterday’s clothes back on. It’s also possible that I dropped it in the snow after the last time I tried it. Either way, it’s been over 24 hours since I last charged its battery, and there are no chargers around to correct that. Wherever it is, it’s useless to me.

_I made it back to the Shack, barely. Walking on one leg through the snow is stupid slow and I don’t recommend it at all. 0/10 score. Not fun. Luckily the 1989 version of you helped me warm up instead of freezing to death. That’s about all he’s been good for, though. I think he believes me that I’m from the future, but I don’t want to say TOO much in case that screws up our timeline. So of course he’s suspicious of me._

I leave out the part about locking me in the basement and yelling at me. No reason to make things sound any more dire than I have to, right?

_It’s been snowing since I got here, and I can’t walk far on my ankle. I’m hoping in a week or so I’ll be able to go poke around the woods and see if I can find the exact spot again. Or that tape measure. Do you or Ford or Dipper know anything about time travel? I have no clue how to get home. The only good thing is that I’ve got another 29 days before I need another pill, so that gives me some time to figure out a solution._

_But I mean, hey, if you find this and want to come rescue a girl…?_

_If I don’t make it back, though,_ I start to write, then stop and scribble the words out. I have 29 days. I’m not going to compose _that_ letter. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

_I hope I see you soon,_ I write instead. _Hope you’re not going nuts looking for me, and nothing else crazy is happening. Give all the boys hugs for me, even if they whine. I miss you all already. This is just…it’s weird. It’s really weird. I love you so much. XXOO, Teegs_

I fold it up small, and fold another piece of paper around it. _Stan Pines_ , I write in block letters on the front. _Wait for July 27, 2014._ Now, where to put it?

The logical place would be our home, of course. That’s the first place he’ll look when I don’t come back from my walk. Well…no, okay, the _first_ place he’ll look will be the woods, but I can’t think of any safe place to put it in the woods where it will stay safe for a quarter-century. And our house presents a whole new set of challenges, because it’s not _our house_ in 1989. I don’t have the faintest clue who’s living there right now.

Horace! My youngest child, the one I inherited when I bought the house he died in. He died in 1921, and he’s been quietly haunting the house ever since. If I can get to the house…ugh, Horace won’t know me yet either. I string bunch of curse words together in my head. Still, until we moved in Horace was absolutely starved for attention. If I turn up and show an interest in him, he’ll be so eager to please that he’ll be thrilled to take custody of the letter.

That’s _if_ I can get to the house, though. Which right now is about as impossible as getting to the middle of the woods. Damn it, I really liked that plan! I nearly crumple the letter in frustration, but instead I sit back in the chair, elevating my foot and chewing on the end of the pen. It has to be somewhere in the Shack. Somewhere Stan would only look if he’s searching for me specifically, and not somewhere 38-year-old Stan is going to find tomorrow.

Ugh! Why is this so complicated? Every place I can think of is either too easy to find, or so obscure he won’t think to look there unless he already knows I’m in the past. Which he doesn’t. Because I can’t reach him to tell him.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I hear a click, and the door swings open. Stan walks through, carrying a stack of bedding under one arm. He deposits it on the floor and stands there, taking in my elevated ankle and the chewed pen in my hand. He clears his throat. “You, uh. You making any progress?” He sounds almost apologetic.

The pen and my proximity to the journal and console must make it look like I’ve been actually working. “No,” I tell him, but instead of letting the word come out hostile, I try to match his tone.

“You really _don’t_ know anything about it, do you?” he asks, crossing the room.

“You’d already brought him back before I ever moved here,” I say gently. “I’ve been down here, but I’ve never seen the journal before, and I’ve never seen the portal _work_.”

Stan looks anywhere but at me. “You might’ve been right…what you said earlier. Maybe I _do_ talk about all that stuff in the future. Maybe I wouldn’t let you down here if I really didn’t think you’re what you say. Maybe…I was just hoping you’d be able to get it working for me.” His eyes flicker toward me as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Seven years is a long time.”

That’s pretty close to an apology. The anger in me begins to melt, but I’m still wary. “I know it is,” I agree with a very light touch of sympathy. I keep my hands to myself this time, tapping my hand with the pen instead. “And I _want_ to help you. For what it’s worth.”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t want to screw up your own timeline, I get it.” He sounds profoundly dissatisfied with this. “But what if I _do_ want you to?”

I shrink back into my chair, even though he’s made no physical indication he wants to hurt me. “You’d try to _force_ me?” I ask in horror.

“What? No!” His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “Not…not like _that_. But what if it takes _another_ seven years? I can’t keep doing this.” Now he stares down at his hands. “But I can’t give up.”

And now I’ve gone from angry and scared to fighting the urge to hug him. _Not my Stan_ , I remind the tension working its way through my muscles. _Not my problem_. “No,” I say aloud, “you can’t. And…look, if you want someone to bounce ideas off of or something, I don’t mind that. I just can’t walk in and magically fix all your problems. I can’t, and I wouldn’t anyway.”

He shakes his head again, this time more in wonder. “You really must have something worth protecting, in your future.”

I nod, and swallow hard. “I have kids,” I remind him.

“Right,” he says, switching from a shake to a small, thoughtful nod. “So I guess tossing ideas around is the best I’m gonna get.”

I smile in profound relief. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

His eyebrows pull down in a crease. “Your back itches?”

My mouth quirks into a smirk of amusement. Has he really never heard that phrase? “I just meant, you let me stay here for a while, help figure out a way to get me home. And in the meantime, I’ll keep you company down here while you’re metaphorically beating your head against—”

“What’s that?” he asks suddenly, stepping forward and picking up my folded note.

My heart jumps into my chest. “Give that to me!” I grab for it, moving so quickly my foot falls off the console.

My reaction only makes him more interested, unfortunately. “Why, what is it?” He flips it over in his hands, taking a step away as I grab for it again. I see his eyes scan the letters, and then come up to meet mine. “You wrote something to _me_?”

“ _Not_ you,” I say frantically, my goodwill toward him evaporating as quickly as it arrived. “ _Future_ you. See? It has a don’t-open-till date.”

“What’s the difference?” he asks, taking another step back and unfolding the paper. “It’s for me, isn’t it?” He gives a little laugh as he opens the page. “Never was any good at waiting for…” I see his eyes move as he starts reading.

“Please stop,” I say miserably. It’s no use trying to get it back at this point, so I hug myself hard, trying to contain my overflowing fear.

I’m not sure he even hears me. He’s gone very still as he reads, only his eyes moving back and forth. I hold my breath, pressing the balls of my hands into my forehead. What’s the worst that can happen, I tell myself. So he knows everything, so what? Is it really going to destroy the world? Probably not. But it feels like a slippery slope. Holding back my secrets was the only thing I felt like I could control.

Stan lowers the page, staring at me with new eyes. He tilts his head and studies me hard, as if I might vanish or change from a different angle.

I sigh heavily, and give him a very poor excuse for a smile.

“You’re…my girlfriend?” he says doubtfully. “From the future. I got that right?”

Feeling like I’m going to throw up, I nod my head once in a silent jerk.

He continues to examine me like I’m some kind of exotic animal, until I feel like I might burn up under the pressure of his gaze. I squirm uncomfortably. “Why didn’t you just _say_ that?” he demands at last, sounding both delighted and irritated in the same breath.

I stare at my knees. “I was scared if you knew, it’d mess up our future. Obviously.”

“ _Our_ future,” he repeats in awe. He looks down at the letter again, and I somehow just _know_ he’s dwelling on that last paragraph. “You’re in _love_ with me?”

I swallow again, trying to get rid of my anxiety. The jig’s up, might as well give the man what he wants. I nod again, and make myself look up at him. “We’ve been living together for nine months.”

A little smile touches his lips. “So we’ve…” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

I put my face in my hands.

Even with my face hidden, I can hear his laugh. “Well jeez, at least now I know I’ve got _something_ to look forward to! And that explains why you know all that personal crap, too. Ha! I _thought_ it was weird some random Shack employee knew all that!”

When the heat in my face has cooled off and I look up, he’s scanning the letter again. “29 days till I need another pill…what’s that about?”

I allow myself a minute to debate how I want to answer that one. “You realize I told you _not_ to read this letter, right? That it’s _personal_?”

“Aw come on, there’s no secrets between _us_ , right sweetie?”

He’s really enjoying himself, which would be kind of cute if I wasn’t so stressed about all of it. I glare at him. “It’s not _funny_.”

“Alright, alright.” He must sense he’s pushing me too far, because he lets it go. “So what do I look like as an old man?”

That’s a question I don’t really mind answering. I even smile a little bit a I picture Stan as I know him. “You still have all your hair…well, most of it. It’s a little shorter and grayer. You’ve got a few new scars, and a few more wrinkles. You’re still strong enough to carry me—you actually…” I realize I’m close to giving an example, which is way more intimate than I need to get here. I feel a blush stealing its way into my cheeks and shut it down firmly. “Anyway,” I continue a little too brightly, “ _I_ think you look pretty good still. I’d show you pictures if my phone wasn’t dead. And missing,” I add as an afterthought.

“Pictures?” he asks. “With your _phone_?”

And I’ve just revealed yet _another_ thing about the future that I didn’t have to. Congratulations, Teagan. You really are a superstar. “Um.” I cough. “Hey, look over there! Something shiny!”

He laughs. “Okay, don’t tell me. I don’t care about your crazy future crap unless it applies to me.” He notices he’s still holding the letter, and hands it back to me. I immediately fold it back up and tuck it into my bra. “So you like older men, do you, sweetie?” He gives me his most charming, seductive grin.

“Yes,” I say primly. “And by my math, _you’re_ younger than me.”

He laughs again, holding his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, yeah, okay. So what were you gonna do with that little love note, anyway?”

I sigh. “I hadn’t gotten that far. I was trying to think of some place to hide it so you could find it in the future and come rescue me.”

Stan leans against the console so that he’s almost sitting opposite me. “Sounds like a long shot.”

“It is,” I admit bitterly. “But so is everything else I can think of.”

“So wait,” he says. “You want future-me to know you’re here, now. But _I_ know you’re here now. So won’t _he_ know you’re here? Since we’re the same guy and all?”

I mouth silently for a second. I honestly can’t argue his logic, yet it seems impossible. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“Why not?” he demands.

All I can do is shrug. “Because if he already knew, wouldn’t he have come back and pulled me out of the woods yesterday before I even made it to you?”

He wags a finger at me. “But then I wouldn’t know you were here. So he wouldn’t know.”

“Ugh.” I put my head back in my hands. “This is giving me a headache.”

“What makes you think I even _could_ come rescue you?” he asks, suspicion returning to his voice. “Thought you said you didn’t know anything about time travel.”

“I don’t,” I answer. “That was in the note, too. I’m hoping someone in the family knows something I don’t.”

“Lemme see it again.” He holds out his hand expectantly.

“No!” I cross my arms in a protective X over myself.

He actually rolls his eyes. “I already saw it… _Teegs_.” He winks at me. The nerve! “What’s another look gonna hurt?”

I purse my lips. “ _You_ don’t get to call me that. _You’re_ not my boyfriend.”

Stan sighs elaborately, but continues to hold his hand out. Grumpily, I pull the letter back out of my bra and place it in his palm. He rewards this with another brilliant smile before opening it and scanning it again. “Oh yeah, guess you did. Who’s Dipper?”

I give him a look which effectively communicates my refusal to answer that. He continues re-reading.

“So your next best bet is hoping the snow melts?” He snorts. “Boy, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

“I’m not crazy about it, either,” I agree wholeheartedly. “But you’ll help me?”

He eyes me up again. “ _You’ll_ help _me_?”

I hold my palm outward as if I’m taking a vow. “I will sit down here every night and try to help you think up new things to try. Don’t expect it to yield any immediate results, but I’ll do it. I will not expose your family secrets to anyone—assuming I even meet anyone else, which seems unlikely. I’ll leave you with the names of those companies to invest in. And if I was a religious woman, I would _pray_ none of this does irreparable damage to the timeline.”

I cock my head, waiting for him to respond or accept this.

He shoves his hands into his pockets instead of mimicking my gesture, but at least he looks me in the face. “I’ll…do what I can to help you get back to your time. Go scouting out in the woods, hide notes for you, whatever. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of running the Shack. I gotta pay the bills somehow, you know.” I lift my eyebrows politely, waiting to see if he’ll add anything else. He thinks for a minute. “And I’ll let you stay here for as long as it takes.”

I hold up a finger. “And you won’t lock me in the basement.”

He looks faintly embarrassed, turning his head to the side. “Deal.”

“Food, water, and ibuprofen?” I ask. I think he’s getting the better end of the deal here, so I’m damned if I’m going to let him overlook any essentials.

“Yeah, sure.” He bobs his head.

I extend my hand again—this time, offering a handshake. “Sounds fair to me.”

Stan’s large, warm hand wraps around mine. “Me too.”

*

Maybe Stan’s right. Maybe I _should_ have just told him all of this from the start. Probably not, because even now I’m still internally agonizing over whether I’ve made a huge mistake. But I have to admit, at least this way second-guessing myself is the _only_ thing I’m suffering through.

The remainder of the day has been surprisingly nice. After our agreement, Stan carries me upstairs in his arms rather than over his shoulder, and only after I give him permission. He sets me up against the dinosaur skull with a pillow at my back and another under my ankle, and we watch a movie while eating peanut butter sandwiches. I’ve taken twice the amount of recommended anti-inflammatories, and with ice on my ankle and a blanket over my lap I’m feeling pretty good.

Stan and I are back on track to being allies, maybe even becoming friends. There’s not much we can do toward getting me home tonight, and he seems inclined to make up for locking me in the basement all day. Given how late I slept and how long I spent down there, it’s almost bedtime by the time I get upstairs. The snow is still falling, which is discouraging both from my point of view and for business. The upside of this is that since we’re essentially snowed in, Stan feels no obligation to focus on anything related to his business.

Being snowed-in also means, sadly, that getting anything to eat besides sandwiches and coffee is impossible. Not that I object to sandwiches, especially since my combined bad luck seems to add up to me being absolutely starving. But I’d really like to be able to go to the store and pick up some more practical winter clothes, so I have something to wear besides a pair of shorts and Stan’s old t-shirts. Not that I’m wearing the shorts right now. I’ve survived without them all day and I’m going to sleep soon, so screw it. But a clean pair of underwear would be much appreciated, at the very least.

I tell Stan that while we’re fast-forwarding through the previews on the VHS he’s selected, and get a skeptical response. “People are gonna notice you if you go into town. A stranger limping around in a pair of shorts? No way you want that kinda attention.”

“You could do it for me?” I suggest hopefully. It’d be his money anyway, but I don’t think now’s the time to remind him of that. “Just pick up some ladies sweats and a few pairs of panties along with some groceries. I could actually cook you a real dinner, and—”

“Ha!” he cuts me off. “Not unless I want people talking about my mysterious lady friend for the rest of the year. Or making assumptions about what I do on my own.” His face stills, eyes going thoughtful and far away. “Actually that’s not a bad idea. People get curious enough, it might stir up some business.”

“Or you could just shoplift them,” I say mildly.

Stan shoots a mellow grin my way. “Guess I don’t change that much in twenty years, huh?”

I return the smile. “I guess not. But I mean, I don’t really know you that well yet. Probably more different than I realize.”

“I got a few differences you might like,” he tells me with a wink. I blink several times, fight off a smirk, and turn it into a stern glare. He gets the message and laughs. “Yeah, okay, have it your way, crazy lady.”

At least he’s not calling me Teegs. “So what do you _usually_ do on days like this?” I ask, nudging things back in the firmly platonic direction.

“What, you mean days when crazy ladies crash in claiming to be my future girlfriends?” He pauses to slurp off the can of beer he’s been nursing. “Cause I mean, that _does_ happen a lot.”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” I deadpan. “There’s no way this is the first time you’ve been snowed in, completely shut off, no tourists to speak of. What do you do?”

“You know.” He waves a hand dismissively, but there’s something in his tone that makes me wish I hadn’t asked. “Read, watch TV, clean the shop, put together new exhibits, search for clues in the basement.”

It sounds almost painfully lonely. No, scratch the _almost_. It sounds horribly isolated and impossibly lonely. But he doesn’t want my sympathy. “Do you have any regular employees?” I ask. “I mean, during the busy season?”

“Employees?” he repeats doubtfully. “You mean people I’d have to _pay_?” He shakes his head. “I’m making enough off these rubes to keep staying here, and the place is on its way to becoming a regular tourist trap in summer. But employees? I don’t need anyone _depending_ on me.”

True, it’ll be a long time until the Mystery Shack becomes the tourist trap I know it as. The fact that he’s already got a functioning gift shop had me fooled, but that was probably one of the first things he put in when he started marketing the place. And as to employees—I assume he had someone helping him out a bit before he hired Soos, but the realization that his current handyman hasn’t even been _born_ yet makes me feel confused and old.

“ _I’m_ depending on you,” I point out, letting humor color my voice.

“Yeah, and I hate it,” he agrees amiably. “Shut up and watch the movie.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. “For the first time in probably years, you have _company_ , and you waste no time telling them to shut up?”

Stan gestures broadly to the tv. “The movie’s starting!”

I’m still entertained. “And because you own the VHS, I’m fairly certain you’ve seen this one before.”

“But _you_ haven’t,” he reminds me. I was allowed a brief view of his movie collection before he put this one into the player, so he knows (and is appalled) that I’ve never seen it. It’s a mystery, of course. An outlandish one based on a board game. I decide to shut up for now, as requested. If I know Stan, he’s going to be talking to the screen inside of ten minutes.

The movie is surprisingly enjoyable. I’m delighted by the cast, and find _myself_ commenting and theorizing loudly about the identity of the murderer. Once or twice Stan responds to my comments, and I have to shush _him_ so that I don’t miss the next plot twist. The last time I do this, he actually gets up and pauses it so that we can have a discussion about hidden clues I’ve both noticed and missed. I know he loves detective shows, but I’m always impressed with the things he catches. He can be so astute in some ways, and so oblivious in others.

I clap my hand to my mouth in shock when the murderer is announced, which seems to please him. He stretches and gets up to set it to rewind. I snuggle back into my pillow, exhaustion catching up to me now that the suspense is over. I realize my back hurts from sitting like this for hours, and I miss my family. This has been fun, but now I want to go peek in at my boys (not that they’d be asleep, night owls that teenagers are) and retire to curl up in my bed next to Stan. None of that is happening, and a sense of melancholy creeps up on me.

Naturally, I try not to let it show. This Stan wouldn’t understand. I fan a large yawn, though. “Thanks,” I tell him. “This day has been…insane. But that was fun. Good note to end it on.”

He’d brought the stack of bedding back up from the basement earlier, and now produces a sleeping bag that looks like it’s seen a lot of use. “I dunno if you wanna sleep in this,” he tells me frankly. “I found it in the closet. It’s Ford’s.” He pauses and sniffs it. “Think it’s been rained on a few times.”

I’m both touched and disgusted. I don’t think it’s easy for him, handing over anything of his brother’s to me. But going to bed in Ford’s sleeping bag seems somehow inappropriate—and I’m not crazy about the smell, either. “I’ll just use it as a mattress,” I say with a bright smile.

Stan seems relieved. “That’s probably smart. You think you got enough blankets?”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I tell him, attempting to straighten out the sleeping bag on the rug. If only it was _his_ sleeping bag, I’d happily snuggled up in it. There might be a hint of a familiar smell that would let me fall asleep imagining I’m back home after all. Oh well, no use crying over what I _don’t_ have. At least I’m not sleeping in the basement.

In fact, Stan kneels next to me to help me smooth out the blankets. I can’t think of anything to say, but I glance sideways at him as we make me up a comfortable place to spend the night. His hair is longer now than I’m used to—shaggy, thick, bordering on a mullet. I miss the gray, but it’s not a bad look for him. I suppress an urge to brush it back and tuck it behind his ear. I wonder, if he’s really as isolated as he seems out here, when the last time someone actually touched him was.

As if he’s thinking along similar lines, he straightens up abruptly. “There you go,” he announces. “It ain’t the Ritz, but it’s the best you’re gonna get.”

“I have a feeling the Ritz is overrated,” I answer. “I hope _you_ get some better sleep tonight.”

“Heh,” he laughs to himself, casting me one last glance before he leaves the room. “Right.”

“Will you hit the light?” I ask as he passes through the doorway. It’s just occurred to me that I’m not brushing my teeth…but I don’t have a toothbrush here, either. Being snowed in is kind of a gross. At any rate, the light goes out, and I watch the outline of Stan’s back retreating toward the stairs. I wiggle under my multiple layers of blankets, trying to take some comfort from the weight of them. Because I _am_ still recovering from a lot of things, sleep catches up to me and takes over eventually. But I lie there for a while, awake and lonely, first.


	5. Chapter 5

“Okay so _really_ , tell me about your life this time.”

I’m sipping coffee again, but this time it’s from a seat in an actual chair at the tiny kitchen table. Also different, Stan’s got his own mug in front of him, and he’s sitting next to me at the table. My ankle is propped up on the seat opposite me, and after a restless night it’s not showing any signs of improvement. I really hope I didn’t actually break it.

Stan’s continuing to be friendly this morning. He helped me up and down the stairs so I could take a shower. And when I asked if there was anything besides PBJs to be had, he poked around his cupboard full of canned goods until he found some peaches behind the rows of meat. I continue to feel very special because of that. And now he’s asking about my life story. Well, let’s see if I can make it interesting this time.

“Okay, um…I’m from Portage, in Michigan. It’s around here.” I point to a spot on my hand, and he looks politely bemused. “You know what’s really crazy? I assume I’m _there_ right now. Only _her_ name is still Teagan O’Neill, and she’s busy playing French horn and perming her hair and crushing on…oh jeez, who _was_ it that year? Still Rick Astley, I think.”

“Who’s that?” Stan asks gruffly. “Some kid at your school?”

I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Okay, I know you prefer stuff from the 60s and 70s. I’m right there with you. But you have to know who he _is_. He topped that charts last year.”

“Eh.” He shrugs and drinks some coffee.

“Anyway, he’s a singer,” I press on. “And almost-sixteen-year-old Teagan thinks she’s in love with him.”

“Almost sixteen?” he follows up, more interested in me than in who sings pop music. “When’s your birthday?”

“April.” I almost ask when his is—recounting my life story is tricking my brain into thinking this is a totally new person I don’t know. “April 26. Why?”

He shrugs again. “I dunno. Making conversation. Keep talking.”

And now I’ve completely lost my spot in the narrative. “Well in a few more years, she’ll finish high school and…this past-future third-person tense is screwing me up! Let me start over. So after high school I went to Western, which is a university pretty close to my hometown. My grades weren’t fantastic, but they were good enough to get in there.”

“College, huh?” He seems curious—understandably, I suppose. “What’s that like?”

“Eh.” I waggle a hand. “Overrated, really. I learned a few things, stressed out a lot, went to a couple parties, had one roommate I hated and a few I liked, met my future husband.”

“The dead one?”

I refrain from rolling my eyes at his lack of tact. “He wasn’t dead at the _time_.”

For some reason, this response strikes Stan as very funny. After laughing for a long minute, he dabs the corners of his eyes and clears his throat. “I dunno, you already told me you’re dating _one_ guy who’s legally dead. Thought maybe that was your thing.”

I feel my cheek tugging upward into a smirk. “Okay, there’s a big difference between _legally_ dead and _ashes in a jar_. You get around a little better than Frank does.”

“Frank, huh.” The fact that my deceased husband actually has a name seems to bother him slightly. “Frank what?”

Good grief, I’ve told him my full name, haven’t I? I sift through my memories and come up empty. “Kettle,” I tell him. “Frank Kettle. He was studying accounting, with a minor in music. We sat next to each other at a symphonic band concert my freshman year.”

“A musician?” Stan asks, his face giving a strong indication as to how he feels about musicians.

“The boring kind,” I smile. “He played violin.”

Stan’s expression clears at that, as I suspected it would. In his mind, guys in _bands_ are showboating girlfriend thieves. Men in _orchestra_ are just a different breed of nerd. I make a mental note not to mention the fact that my son Dave plays guitar. “Jeez,” he remarks lightly, “you two sound like a couple of nerds. You say he was studying _math_?” He shakes his head in pity for anyone who would do such a thing voluntarily.

I grin. “Hey, he made good money with a masters in accounting! Better than I ever did with my BA.”

Looking faintly sour, he takes drains the last of his coffee. “So was it worth it?”

“What?” I ask, struggling to keep up. “Getting married?”

“The degree.” He sits back in the kitchen chair, tipping until it rests on just two legs.

“Oh!” I have to think about that. “Yeah, I guess so. I don’t know what else I would have done with myself during those years. It was interesting enough. And I met Frank, which means I had Dave and Nicky, which I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.”

He digests that along with his coffee. “So after college—then what?”

I breathe in the warm steam from my own mug. “Then…let’s see. Frank finished his master’s at the same time I finished my bachelor’s, so we both started job hunting. We were engaged by then, so…you know. He found a job first, out in Grand Haven, and I went with him.”

“That still Michigan?” Stan inquires.

I bob my head. “Nice area, right on Lake Michigan. My first job was as an office assistant to a construction company. It wasn’t great, but it was okay. I worked there until a couple years after Nicky was born. Then I kind of lucked into the secretary job at Dave’s school.” I pause to fondly recall my eldest son as a cute little kindergartener. He was such a sweet, outgoing kid back then, playing dress-up and house with his friends. He’d been protective of Nicky back then, too, and his little brother had idolized him in return—what I wouldn’t give to have their relationship that strong now!

Stan’s waving his hand in front of my face. “Earth to Teagan!”

I blink. “Sorry. Got lost thinking about my kids.”

He shakes his head. “You _work_ on being this crazy, or does it come easy?”

I toss my hair. “Comes natural, obviously.”

He’s still getting used to me; my Stan would have grinned at that and pulled me in close, but this one doesn’t quite know how to react. After a second he _does_ grin, though. “Hey, you own it, good for you.”

“Damn straight good for me,” I retort smartly, and follow it with a greedy sip of coffee. “Anyway, three years ago last March I was watching tv with Frank before dinner when he made this strange face and then…” I still don’t like that memory, though it’s long since stopped playing before my eyes at random intervals. I twitch my head and have to clear my throat. “He was dead before I even called 911. They said there was nothing we could have done. His heart just…went.”

And now this conversation feels heavy and awkward. I duck my head and take another sip of coffee, because I’m not quite sure what else to do. Time to change the subject, stat. I start to say something and stop short several times. Finally, Stan saves me from myself.

“Must’ve been hard,” he says with what sounds like genuine sympathy.

I nod, relieved he’s at least said something. “The hardest part was getting Dave and Nicky through it. Coping with your own grief is hard enough, but watching them try to cope nearly ripped me apart.” More ugly memories I don’t want to revisit. I can take comfort, however, in knowing how far we’ve come since then. That helps me work up a real smile. “We made it, though. Obviously. Then last year we meant to spend a few weeks vacationing in Gravity Falls, and instead we wound up _staying_ here.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Stan groans, tipping his chair forward again. “You skip right over the best part.”

I peer at him over the rim of my mug. “No, no, I’m pretty sure I mentioned the birth of my sons.”

He eyes me up, trying to tell if I’m joking or not. I know perfectly well that he means I skipped over the part that involves his future. But I’m not going to acknowledge it.

“I mean _me_ ,” he says bluntly, rocking his chair back again. “You left out the part about me.”

“Oh!” I say in fake shock, putting a hand to my lips and batting my lashes. “I’m so sorry! You’re right, I _did_.”

Stan crosses his arms over his chest, nearly toppling his chair backward with the movement. He catches himself, but the close call utterly destroys my attempts to play coy. I laugh, apologize for laughing, and subside into giggles.

“So go on,” I say, dialing it back to a sunny smile. “That’s _my_ life story. Your turn.”

He makes a face at me. “Why? You already know it all, don’t you?”

“Not really.” I tilt my head side to side. “I’ve never heard it from _you_.”

“Who el—oh.” He gets it. But instead of answering, he gets to his feet and stretches expansively. “Well, too bad. I gotta hold _something_ back. Make sure you do your share of the work today.” He winks at me.

“Oh, are we working today?” I ask innocently.

That gets me another side-eye, after which he wags a finger at me. “I’m onto you.”

I smile sweetly up at him. He’s catching on to the fact that I’m enjoying myself. Good.

“You done?” he asks, indicating my empty can and the mug still in my hand.

I down the rest of my coffee in one sip, and nod. “I guess. Back to the basement?”

“You got it. Need a lift again?”

I duck my head again. I hate feeling like a burden and an invalid. “I can make it. You must be getting sick of carrying me around.”

Stan all but rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. You hardly weigh anything, it’s easy.” He scoops me into a bridal carry, waiting patiently for me to put my arms around his neck for stability. I blush, but this is more practical, faster, and a lot more enjoyable than limping to the door and scooting down the steps on my butt. Mostly because it hurts less, though it also feels very safe and familiar. And let’s not forget the compliment—who doesn’t like to hear they hardly weigh anything?

“You still box?” I ask as he carries me down the steps to the elevator, because casual conversation is the only thing that can save this from feeling overly intimate.

I can feel his muscles tense, just for a brief moment, at the mention of something he’s not used to people knowing. Then he shakes it off. “You know, I didn’t for a while,” he says, shifting me so that he has a hand free to punch some weird ancient-looking symbols on a panel. “I was getting more… _practical_ experience. Got some muscle back when I was…” He hesitates. “You know about Colombia, right?”

“ _Sí, querido,_ ” I answer smoothly even though it’s been several decades since I’ve had an excuse to use Spanish. “ _Yo sabe todo.”_

Stan’s eyebrows fly up into his hair. “Hold up,” he says in his gruff, very American accent. “I got this. Uh…ten-go kay matt-are-tay.”

I’ve never heard him actually construct a sentence in another language before, and my surprise must show in my face. He looks absurdly pleased by this. “What, you thought I spent three years there without learning _anything_?”

Despite the atrocious accent, I’m rather impressed. “I mean, what good is spending time abroad if you don’t learn how to make any threats?”

“Exactly,” he agrees with gusto. The doors part, and he carries me into the laboratory, past the banks of blinking lights and humming machines.

“So have you figured out what all these do?” I inquire. Asking intelligent questions down here is the least I can do to hold up my end of the deal.

He sets me down with a grunt of effort. “Most of ‘em. I wouldn’t have got that far without the book, but a few are pretty straightforward. Hey, look at this one.” He points to a monitor that seems to show the area outside the Shack. “Looks like a tv antenna from outside.” His tone of voice suggests this is one of the most impressive deceptions he’s ever seen. “You can change the view, too. Look.”

He motions me closer, and I limp up to peek through what looks like a periscope—complete with handles. “You can _move_ it?” I gasp. I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised, given I know this place houses an interdimensional portal and all. But I’m with Stan on this. The simpler stuff is far more fun. I turn the periscope back and forth, looking from one snowbank to another. “Boy, you really weren’t kidding about all the snow.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna be here for a while at this rate,” I hear him say beside me. I’m not sure he realizes how pleased he sounds about that state of affairs. It’s almost enough to make me wish—momentarily—that I didn’t have to leave. Then I remember all the reasons I do, and an angry beehive of anxiety fills up my chest. It’s good that I’m still looking through the periscope, because it gives me a chance to compose my face and remind myself that I have plenty of time.

“So,” I announce, taking a steadying breath and stepping back from the periscope. “Give me the grand tour here. What’s this thing?” I point to the giant computer nearest us.

“Oh, _that_ thing.” Stan makes a face. “It spews some readout once a week with a bunch of numbers that don’t mean anything. To me, anyway.”

“I suck at math,” I admit freely, “but if you have any of the readouts, I can take a look and see if anything jumps out at me.”

“Yeah, sure, they’re in here somewhere,” he agrees eagerly. “I tried matching them up with stuff in the book to see it was some sort of code, but that went nowhere. For all I know it’s the weather forecast.”

I limp a few steps forward, running my fingers cautiously along the glass and metal surfaces. “What about this one?”

Stan grins broadly, then stops himself. “You know, it’s real tempting to give you the ball and pony show down here. I’m so used to doing it upstairs, right?” Almost magically, he slips into his charming, confident Mr. Mystery persona. “That right there? Well you know, it _used_ to predict the future. Yep! Accuracy rate of 120 percent. But the world couldn’t handle it, so the government came in and shut it down. At least, I _heard_ it was the government. Personally, I think it was some secret society. Or maybe a con artist who wanted to change his future.”

He gives me a cheeky wink before letting the shtick drop with a sigh. “Truth is, most of this crap is _boring_. That one’s just a fancy fuel gage.”

“Oh.” I can’t help but feel a little disappointed, but try to make the best of it. “Well, I mean…you _do_ need to know how much fuel you have, right? What kind does it take?”

Stan’s shoulders sag. “Nuclear waste. Nice, huh? Ford had a whole bunch of it stashed down here, and I can’t even ask him where he _got_ it. He’s not the type to just steal it, and he sure didn’t ask _me_ for help. Anyhow, I haven’t run out of the stuff—yet.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Dunno what I’ll do when I do. Maybe I’ll get it running before that happens, eh?”

I see the hopeful way he’s looking at me, but ignore it. “Does the book explain what these are, or did you just have to figure it out yourself?”

“Some of both,” he shrugs. “He drew out diagrams of the complicated ones, but I guess he thought the rest of this was too basic to even bother.” He shakes his head in disgust or frustration.

“Well,” I say heartily, clapping a hand on his arm, “I think that’s pretty amazing that you were able to figure them out on your own.”

As I’d hoped, this distracts him from the way I dodged his question about the future. A faint look of satisfaction returns to his face. “It’s not that hard. I mean, I know cars. Mechanical stuff’s not all that different.”

I shake my head fondly. “You are so much smarter than you realize.”

“Jeez, lady, would you stop trying to get into my pants already?” he complains loudly and dramatically. It doesn’t quite cover the fact that he’s actually very pleased—but it _does_ make my cheeks feel unpleasantly warm. That’s so unfair! Especially after _he_ practically propositioned _me_ last night!

He knows it, too. He’s laughing at me. Not literally, though his grin right now isn’t far removed from it. How long has it been since he’s had someone to joke with? “Sorry,” I say with pink cheeks. “I’ll try to control myself.”

The fact that I’m playing along clearly delights him even more. His chest puffs out as he rolls his shoulders back. “I know, I know, I don’t make it easy.”

“Yeah, jeez, be less charming and handsome.” I roll my eyes.

A quick look flashes over his face that makes me worry I’m being a little _too_ friendly. But all he does is wink again, and flex his arms enough to make the muscles show. “Can’t help it,” he smirks.

Feeling decidedly awkward, I cough and turn back to the machines. “Are we finishing this tour or what? I can’t stay on my feet forever, you know.”

“Oh yeah.” He looks a bit abashed. “Forgot about that. You’re—uh. So. That’s a giant calculator. It’s got a bunch of preprogrammed equations for something to do with dimensions. Bunch of science mumbo jumbo, I dunno, but nothing else works unless you’ve got it switched on.”

I stare around at all the whirring machinery once more. “The power bills for this place must be astronomical!”

Stan scowls at that. “You’re telling me! Half the profit I made last year went into keeping this shit running, and another half went into paying the mortgage on this place.”

“So you’ve had _nothing_ leftover?” I ask—partly horrified, partly skeptical.

“Not much,” he corrects himself, looking slightly shiftier. I lift my eyebrows, calling him out. “No, seriously!” he protests. “Not much. Enough to buy groceries and stash a few grand away for a rainy day. That’s it. You might not’ve guessed from the PBJs for every meal, but I’m not exactly rolling in dough here, sweetie.”

“Of course not.” I smile apologetically. He’s not exactly rolling in dough in my regular time, either, but we’re comfortable enough. “Sounds stressful. It’s pretty cool that you found a way to make as much money as you have.”

“Yeah.” Shoving his hands into his pockets again, he grins. “I can’t take all the credit, though. The people in this town are idiots.” A thought crosses his mind, and his smile widens. “When I figured out people were interested in this place, I thought I could charge a few dozen of them to come take a look. _Once_. But they keep coming back! The same folks’ll turn up every month or so, take the tour to see if anything’s changed, spend some more money in the gift shop. Pretty sure I’ve gotten the whole town by now and then some, but here I am still in business.” His face screws up in disbelief, then he laughs. “But hey, I’m not complaining!”

I grin along with him. “I’m glad you’ve been able to make it work.” I don’t ask what he’d do if he couldn’t afford to stay here, because I’m sure even the question would upset him. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I’d know the answer. He’d do whatever it took. And honestly, I love him, but when it comes to his family there’s very little I’ll put past him. I think I’m better off not asking.

He smiles at me just a fraction longer than is comfortable, then turns and scratches the back of his neck. “Anyhow. This one here controls temperature and air quality in that room.” He gestures toward the large window at the end of the room. “The one opposite—” He points again. “—is some sorta electrical conduit. Packs a hell of a punch. Found that one out the hard way.” He laughs at a memory of something that I don’t doubt was very unpleasant at the time; I grimace at the thought. I’m not averse to getting thrown around or punched in the right circumstances, but electricity scares the hell out of me.

Stan pauses to think before gesturing to the next span of controls and lights. “That one’s down in the book. It’s something to do with particles. You can read it—if you get any of it, explain it to me! I’ve read through it ten times and I still can’t make sense of it.”

He provides me with rough descriptions of the last few machines, moving progressively closer to the desk at the end of the room. I’m really starting to covet that chair, paying progressively less attention to each piece of equipment as the strain of standing increases. When we make it to the levers and panels on the left side of that desk, I collapse into the chair feeling like I could _use_ a good blush to restore some color to my face.

“Huh. Guess I need to get another chair down here.” Stan leans against the panels again instead, fortunately not hitting any levers with his butt. He picks up the journal, flipping through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for. I scoot closer, positioning the chair so that I can see, too. He passes me the book and leans over the back of the chair, arm brushing my shoulder as he jabs his finger at the middle of the left page. “There, see? That’s the part I just can’t wrap my head around.”

I examine the diagram, read the corresponding paragraph, and realize I’ve gleaned absolutely nothing from the process. My brain slides right away from all the scientific words with a deafening _nope_! I read through it again, more slowly, forcing my brain to dwell on the key words. I look back at the diagram.

I don’t realize my face is screwed up in concentration until Stan sighs. Then I look up, craning my head around to see him. “Yep,” he mutters. “That’s how it is for me, too.”

“Ugh.” I turn my face away from the book. “Ford, you arrogant _prick_! Couldn’t just write in plain English, could you? You could make it back to our dimension a lot sooner if you’d just ditch pretentious jargon!”

A quick glance at Stan’s face makes me suspect he’s torn between amusement and anger. “Watch it,” he warns, “that’s my brother you’re talking about.”

“And you’d say it about him yourself if you weren’t still feeling guilty about the whole mess,” I respond without remorse. Then I focus on what I’m really saying, and soften my tone. “I love him too, you know. Not…you know, the same way. But he’s family. He’s saved my life.”

“ _He’s_ saved your life?”

Crap. I say nothing.

“If _he_ saved your life, what are you doing with _me_?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” I try to lighten the mood with a coy smile.

“I dunno, crazy lady.” He shakes his head doubtfully. “You got a _lot_ of secrets.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “And you don’t? Anyway, I’m only keeping quiet because I don’t want to change the future. I’d like to still be dating you when I get back to it.” I think about how weird this entire conversation is, and voice that too. “This whole conversation is surreal. Can’t we just…I don’t know, pretend that we’ve just met?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard for _me_ ,” he says pointedly.

I sigh. “Fine. For the sake of sanity—I’m from the future, can’t dodge that one. But I’m not dating anybody. In fact, I barely know the Pines. The only reason I’m down here right now is that I turned up desperate on your doorstep, and out of the kindness of your heart you’re letting me stay for a while. I stumbled into this room totally by accident and we’re making the best of it.”

“Huh,” Stan snorts in amusement. “Kindness of my heart? Seriously? You’re not even _trying_ to make it believable.”

I run my hands over my face. “Then you did it because you haven’t had any real company in years, you knew I was no threat, and I have breasts. Better?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Wow.” Laughing, I shake my head. “You’re serious?

He folds his arms over his chest in a way that implies a challenge. “Are you?”

Am I? “Why not. Might make things less weird. It’s worth a shot.”

He jerks his head downward in one definitive nod, and then resumes the conversation as if it was never interrupted. “Wanna try reading it one more time?”

“Not really.” I wrinkle my nose at the offending journal page. “Not without a lot of liquor, anyway.”

“Some help _you_ are.”

“I said I’d keep you company and offer a fresh perspective while you mess around down here. I never agreed to torturing myself.”

He has _such_ a charming grin. “You’re not gonna have _any_ perspective if you don’t read that thing through first.”

I close it firmly. “Then I’ll save it for bedtime reading. Show me what you usually do down here.”

“It’ll put you to sleep alright.” He rolls his eyes, and leans over to pull open a desk drawer. “I’ve been keeping this list. Start by writing down all the numbers and positions on the machines every day. Once you’re moving around better you can do that for me. It’s a pain in the ass.”

“Thanks,” I mutter sarcastically, which gets me another grin. I take the well-worn notebook from his hands and flip through it. Each page has a specific date, time, and temperature. Beneath those are surprisingly thorough lists of the positions of every lever and button in the room. It takes me a moment to understand his system for labeling all the variables, but once I do there’s a certain beauty to the simplicity of it. I’m certainly impressed by all the details he has thought to include, and how diligent he has been in attempting it day after day. Very few of the positions and numbers change from page to page, indicating he’s being sensible and scientific in his attempts.

I nod in appreciation as I flip through the pages. “This is really smart! But no wonder it’s taking forever. I don’t envy you. So after you write all this down, then what?”

“Then I go through and check out that thing.” A slight head inclination is all it takes to let me know he’s talking about the portal in the next room. “Make sure there’s no rats been chewing at cables or anything like that. Sweep up the dust bunnies. Move that big lever, make sure it doesn’t rust up.”

“Has anything ever changed in there?” I ask with bated breath. Even though I know he has a long road of futile efforts ahead, the sheer scale of what he’s attempting is amazing and exciting.

“Not once,” he tells me flatly. “I didn’t think it was gonna be this tough, you know? Figured all I had to do was put the handle back the way it was when he disappeared, flip a few switches, and bingo.”

No wonder being here for eight years with no results has him bitter! And no wonder he doesn’t want to entertain the idea of spending multiple decades hanging around the town. “I wonder why it _wasn’t_ that easy,” I muse softly.

“Yeah, I stayed up a lot of nights thinking about that one.” Stan sighs. “At least I got some idea where he _went_ , thanks to reading through all his notes. Trying to open a door to another dimension.” He shakes his head and sighs heavier. “ _Why_ , Ford?”

He’s talking almost to himself at this point, and I don’t have any answers. Because I’m clearly an idiot, I extend a hand and rest it on his shoulder in a gesture of sympathy. This time, maybe because I haven’t put my foot in my mouth, he accepts it.

“He always had this idea that he didn’t belong, ever since we were kids.” For a long minute, he lapses into silence, and I continue not knowing what to say. “I dunno if he was trying to find a place he felt like he fit, or just wanted to show off that big brain of his…he didn’t have to look for another _world_.”

I don’t have to fake my ignorance on this front, because it’s something I’ve never thought to ask about in my usual time. “Do you…what do you think would have happened, if he hadn’t gone through it?”

“I dunno.” Abruptly, he shakes his head and rids himself of the thousand-yard stare in his eyes. “Guess it doesn’t matter, does it. He built it, and maybe he would’ve shut it down—but he wouldn’t even let me burn this book. I think he would’ve gone through it anyhow. He was like that. Couldn’t let things go. Stubborn.”

I squeeze his shoulder. “Sounds like that runs in the family.”

“Heh.” He smiles a little sadly.

“Come on now,” I encourage him, “everything you’ve described only takes an hour or two, max. What are you up to the rest of the time you’re down here?”

He gestures to a stack of thick, dusty books. “Keep an eye on the equipment and read up on stuff that’ll help me get a better grip on this crap.” I let my hand fall as he walks over to pick them up. “Got a couple on theoretical physics, but they’re worse than the stuff in the journal. These ones are on cryptograms and cyphers, mostly. He used a bunch of different codes. I’ve figured out most of them by now, but I keep hoping something new will jump out at me.”

I make a face. “This really is a labor of love for someone who’s not a scientist.”

“Labor of love,” he grins, and shoots me with a finger-gun of approval. “I like that. Sounds fancy.”

“Presentation is everything,” I say with a wink. I don’t mention it, but he’s the one who taught me that. “So you just check the equipment and sit down here reading all day?”

“All _night_ , usually. Can’t hang out down here if I’ve got the upstairs open for tours.”

“Good point.”

“So what, you thought it was gonna be glamorous?”

“I…don’t know what I thought. I expected it to be frustrating, but…” I shrug. I didn’t realize just how much work he’d put into this. He’s never described these years to me, really. It’s just “turned the Shack into something that could make money, spent the rest of my time trying to get Ford back.” I didn’t imagine it being glamorous, but this sort of tedium and _drudgery_ isn’t what I used to imagine, either. Once again, I’m struck by a sense of awe at Stan’s dedication to his family.

But I’m not going to say that. I do learn from my mistakes, eventually. Instead, I pull open the top book on cyphers and start reading.

*

It’s not snowing outside, which I suppose is a blessing. It means the plows might eventually make the roads passable so that we (or at least Stan) can get into town and buy some supplies. It’s hard to get _too_ excited, though, because it’s still frigid out and the snowbanks are showing no signs of melting in the near future.

I’m now on my second full day in 1989. Yesterday I spent about four hours in the hidden lab, most of which was just looking through books and listening to Stan’s occasionally colorful commentary. I wonder if he talks to himself when he’s down there alone, or if he’s just that excited to have some company down there. At any rate, I enjoy his random narrative outbursts and the profane insults he throws at inanimate objects.

We’d decided to call it a day when my bladder started insisting on a trip back upstairs. So after using the bathroom and taking another large dose of ibuprofen for my ankle, I sat around in the gift shop helping him do inventory. I won’t say it was exciting, but I did enjoy the organizational aspects of it. I even suggested a few minor changes in the way things are displayed out there, and made a few new signs with more attractive handwriting on them. I’m feeling pretty good about my contributions on all fronts.

After all that we had another round of PBJs, which I’m only enthusiastic about at this point because I’m _hungry_ by the time we get around to eating them. I really hope he can make it into town tomorrow to buy more bread, or I’ll be joining him in a can of non-specific “meat” at supper. Or going hungry. Maybe I’ll do that. I can afford to lose a few pounds, right?

After dinner he put another movie into the VHS player. This one I’d seen, but not since I was a _lot_ younger. It was a fun cop movie with lots of action and wisecracking. I spent it sitting in the same spot as the night before, snuggled up under a blanket on the floor with pillows at my back and under my foot. Other than asking if I wanted to sit in his lap and laughing when I refused, Stan has shown no interest in surrendering his chair to me. I’ve come to terms with that.

Again, I didn’t sleep very well. A pile of blankets on the rug isn’t bad, but it’s not my own bed either. My ankle still surprises me with a jolt of pain now and then. I’m not used to sleeping alone anymore. And above all, being left alone in the dark in a strange(ish) place is the perfect setting for my brain to kick into anxiety overdrive. I second-guess everything I’ve said since I arrived, everything I’ve done. I worry about making it home before my pill wears off. I wonder what my family’s doing right now. Then I realize what my kids are doing is not being born yet, and what Stan’s doing is sleeping in the bed upstairs. Which is not what I mean in my heart at all. What’s happening in 2014? Do they even miss me? Has that happened yet?

Eventually, I gave myself a headache and fell asleep.

So here I am, day three, enjoying another cup of coffee across the kitchen table from Stan. “You know what pisses me off the most about being here?” I ask conversationally between large sips. He raises his eyebrows, and I smirk. “That I’m _not_ miserable.”

“Yeah, sounds awful,” he agrees, traces of humor under his deadpan delivery.

My smirk turns into a grin. “It _should_ be, though, that’s my point. My ankle’s sprained—at this point, maybe it’s broken, I have no way of knowing. I almost froze to death. I’ve had nothing but coffee and peanut butter sandwiches to eat for two days straight. I—”

“Hey, what about those peaches yesterday?”

“Right. Sorry. _Practically_ nothing but peanut butter sandwiches for two days straight, and I—”

“You think two days is bad? Try a month!”

I acknowledge his interruption with an amused expression, nothing more. “I’ve been walking around in—”

“No you haven’t.”

“Would you quit?” The suppressed laughter tugging at my cheeks undermines my complaint. “Fine, I have been _sitting_ around and _limping_ around in someone else’s old shirts and a pair of shorts, bra, and panties that haven’t been washed since I got here because I have no spares. You know how gross that is?” I press on before he can tell me that no, he doesn’t find that gross at all. “I spent half of yesterday reading the most boring books on the planet. I’m sleeping on someone’s living room floor, which is not a great time as an adult. And I have no fucking clue how to get back to where I belong. These are all very good reasons to be miserable, don’t you think?”

Stan spreads his hands out, palms up, in front of him. “I guess?

I nod in satisfaction. “And don’t get me wrong, I’m not in love with any of that stuff. But at home I have to juggle work and an entire family who wants my attention and all the usual errands and…I don’t know. Something about being snowed in with a bunch of books and movies, nowhere to go and wouldn’t be able to get there anyway…” I smile and shake my head. “I’m sure I’d get sick of it eventually. And I _do_ miss my family. But it’s not a terrible change of pace.”

“So what you’re saying is, you like hanging out with me more than you like having clean underwear.” His face right now is a mixture of smooth arrogance and boyish hope. It’s almost irresistible.

Almost. “That is not remotely what I said.”

Pushing his coffee to the side, he leans across the table. “You could just take ‘em off,” he says with a knowing nod. I narrow my eyes and he sits back, hands out defensively. “While you do some laundry, I mean! Jeez.”

I don’t buy it for a second, but I give him the benefit of the doubt. “Forgive me if I’m not comfortable going commando around someone else’s house.”

“But you’re comfortable making me get you new ones?”

Again, my cheeks tug upward and sabotage my demeanor. “I’m not _making_ you do anything. Don’t think I could if I wanted to.”

Leaning even further back in his seat, he rubs his chin in what he clearly thinks is a thoughtful and mysterious way. I wait for him to say something, but apparently looking deep is more entertaining for him. Shaking my head in amusement, I change the subject.

“So the snow’s still there, I assume you’re not expecting any tourists, we’re not going into town…is this going to be another fun-filled day of studying cyphers and physics?”

Stan tilts his head, thinking it over. His hair really is shaggy. I have a feeling the last time it was cut, he did it himself. It would look awful this length on _my_ Stan, but on the younger face it’s rather dashing. It goes very well with all that dark scruff covering the bottom half of his face. It’s a good thing I’m already spoken for, because that’s a very handsome man sitting across the table from me.

“Well I wanna at least get through the regular stuff down there. Maybe teach you a few more things.” He winks. “Why, you got something else in mind?”

I drain the last of my coffee. Damn that stuff is good. “We could work on finding a solution to _my_ problem.”

“Yeah, just lemme magic you back to the future from here, crazy lady.”

“You’re kind of an asshole sometimes, you know that?”

“Hey, who told you I was nice?” He sounds playfully angry and indignant, like he might punch whoever spread such awful lies about him.

“The guy you are the rest of the time,” I say without missing a beat.

“I dunno what you’re talking about.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Anyhow I thought you already had a plan for yourself. And it involves waiting till we can leave the house.”

I make to have another sip of coffee to console myself, then remember it’s gone. I look forlornly over at the pot, which is also empty, and sigh. “I know. It just feels so wrong to not be doing _anything_ proactive.”

“You just said you were enjoying yourself,” Stan shrugs. “What’s the rush?”

“I—you know what? You’re right. Until the snow melts, I’m treating this like vacation,” I announce, straightening my back in determination. “An awkward, imposed, painful vacation!”

“That’s the idea,” he laughs, unfolding his arms.

I grin triumphantly. This is not the vacation I would have chosen for myself, but I can make the best of taking it easy for a few days. “You got any books that _aren’t_ boring?”

“Books?” This is clearly not the type of fun my host was hoping for. “Come on, you can do better than that!”

Now I grimace. “I really can’t. I like movies but I don’t think I can handle a marathon. I like baking and cooking, but I know you don’t have many ingredients just now. I can’t clean well unless I can walk, so—”

“Are you _serious_?” Stan demands, dismayed. “You’re talking about _cleaning_? On _vacation_? You wanna clean someone else’s house on vacation.” He shakes his head, looking at me like he feels sorry for me.

“Okay then, what would _you_ do?”

He thinks for a moment. “You know how to play poker?”

“Of _course_ I know how to play poker,” I scoff. He’s the one who taught it to me! “But I have no money to make it interesting.”

He looks dissatisfied for a minute, then brightens. “Strip poker?”

I give him a withering stare.

He laughs. “Fine, how about making it a drinking game?”

“You have liquor?” I admit, I’m slightly interested.

“Well, no _wine coolers_ ,” says the condescending caveman.

That, I feel, merits an even more withering glare than the suggestion of strip poker. “Don’t be ridiculous. Whisky. Preferably the good stuff, but I doubt you have it.”

“What’s the supposed to mean?”

“That I doubt you have it. Am I wrong?”

After a pause, he sullenly admits I am not wrong. “You seriously telling me you drink whisky?”

“I’ll drink you under the table, honey.”

He clearly does not believe me. “Okay then. Let’s go. Right now.”

“Little early in the day for drinking games, isn’t it? I usually like to wait an hour or two after finishing my coffee.”

“Okay,” he chuckles. “After the machines. We’ll get the serious stuff done first.”

“You’re on!”


	6. Chapter 6

Even the hours we spend in the basement aren’t too bad. Today turns out to be a day when that first giant computer prints off its list of indecipherable numbers, so I sit and examine the readout as Stan performs his usual routines. Something about the structure of the numbers, with an occasional letter thrown in, nips at the edges of my brain in a way that makes me feel like I _should_ I know what they mean—but whatever it is, it eludes me. I flip through the journal again to see if it triggers any ideas, just as Stan says he’s done, but it’s an endeavor in frustration. After half an hour of attempts, I’m grinding my teeth and fighting the urge to crumple the readout into a ball.

Time to change course. I set the printout firmly down and switch to looking at one of the physics books. It’s dense, boring, and at some points almost incomprehensible, but something about staring at _these_ pages relaxes my mind just the right way. My back has slid down the chair’s back as I sat with my leg propped up, but now I straighten up so quickly my heel nearly slips off the desk. “Coordinates!”

“Huh?” Stan’s still jotting down stuff in his notebook, but he looks up at my exclamation.

I pick the readout back up, looking at it with fresh excitement. “That’s what they remind me of! Coordinates. You know, latitude, longitude, all that? Only it’s listing more than two points as reference.”

He crosses the room as my eyes scan down the page, confirming for myself that the connection I’m seeing isn’t just imaginary. I don’t lift my eyes, but I can feel him leaning over the back of my chair. “See?” I jab a finger at one line of text on the page. “26W 18S 97D 14H 85T. The first two lines of that are straight out of geography. 26 degrees west, 18 south. I mean, I have no clue where that _is_ , and I’ve got no idea what D, H, and T stand for. I thought it was a code at first, but what if it’s a location?”

Stan scratches his head. “Location of _what_?” He leans further over my shoulder, until his chest is pressed right against me and his hair is tickling my cheek. “Something that keeps moving, if you ask me.” He points, too. “If they even _are_ coordinates. This one at the top’s totally different front this one down here.”

I shrug defensively. “Hey, I’m not the scientist. You wanted a fresh set of eyes, and I’m telling you I think they’re coordinates.”

He drums his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of my chair. “Could be. _Could_ be. Hm.” He stays exactly where he is, engrossed in the idea and utterly oblivious to any sense of personal space I might have. His finger goes back to the page, slowly moving down the series of numbers and letters as he reads. I sit still, not quite sure what to do, not entirely objecting to having someone else’s body heat seep into my back. He smells nice, too. Not like soap, and certainly not like aftershave (he hasn’t shaved since I got here, as far as I can tell) but pleasant. Masculine. Familiar. He leans even further, squinting at the page, and my heart rate spikes when the scruff on his cheek scratches against my chin.

“Hm,” he muses again. When he brings up a hand to thoughtfully scratch his face, he finally notices that he’s a little close for comfort and backs off to give me some breathing room. I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or not, because he keeps his eyes firmly on the paper. Hopefully my body language doesn’t betray the fact that I was enjoying it.

After another minute, he straightens up. “Be right back,” he announces. “Gonna see if I can find a map.”

I nod. “I’ll check the books around here for any geography references.”

It must take him a while to track down a map upstairs, because I’m alone in the basement far longer than I expected. It gives me time to flip through all the books around the desk to see if they contain maps or atlases (they don’t). He’s still not back when I finish with that, so I thumb more slowly through Ford’s journal, looking for any references to locations or coordinates. Knowing what I know about his portal and location, it seems likely that the readouts are the locational data of other dimensions.

While a lot of the journal is technical details—including a page on how to shut _down_ the mechanism, but not how to restart it, which I find impossibly annoying—there are some interesting and entertaining pages mixed in. There are several weird creatures that I’ve never even heard of, and I can’t help wishing I could ask Nicky about. He and Dipper have gone cryptid hunting on several occasions, and I’m not sure if they know about all of these or not.

There’s also an entry on what the journal refers to as _water rodents, an amphibious creature with appearances reminiscent of an aquatic squirrel. At first I thought they were some sort of pet of the local merpeople, but I soon discovered they are highly intelligent creatures with scientific and inquisitive minds. They were just as keen to study me as I was to study them!_ Yep, I’ve encountered those guys. The memory of that day brings a smile to my face, but it brings with it a strong wave of nostalgia. I’m enjoying myself here, but I miss my home. I want to watch Dave check his hair for the fifth time. I want to talk with Nicky. I want to hear Horace laugh. I want to curl up on the sofa with Stan and listen to his commentary as we watch tv before bed, and yes technically I suppose I could do something like that now but it wouldn’t be the _same_.

With a sigh of longing, I turn the page. Floating eyeballs don’t trigger any sort of emotional response, thankfully. What am I supposed to be looking for again? Any mention of dimensional coordinates, right. Or anything that looks like it might remotely _relate_ to dimensional coordinates. Some of the text has been written in a complicated cypher than I can’t begin to figure out. But Stan said he’s figured out most of them by now, so he probably has a translation written somewhere. I’ll read through that, too.

Finally, he returns with a world map that’s disintegrating at all the seams. “Took you long enough,” I observe. “Where _was_ it?”

“Box in the attic.” He drops onto the floor, spreading the map out in front of him. “I must’ve put it up there when I realized I’d have to move some of Ford’s stuff away if I was staying. Thought it was somewhere totally different.”

I carefully shift myself from my chair onto the floor next to him, so that we can look both take a look.

“Gimme a set of the coordinates.”

Of _course_ he says that right after I’ve settled myself onto the floor. But because I’m used to being helpful, I automatically get up on my knees and grab the readout from the desk. I start at the top of the list as I sit back down beside him. “28W 16S, and then the ones that don’t make sense.”

There’s silence as Stan traces his fingers along the closest lines and I try to do the same thing with only my eyes. “That’s the middle of the Atlantic Ocean,” he says angrily, staring at the spot. “You sure?”

Of course I’m sure, but I look again to indulge him. “Yep. 28 west, 16 south.” I look at the map again. “Right off the coast of South America. What the fuck. Wanna check another one?”

“Yeah, sure, gimme another.”

The next one down the list is completely different from the first…not sure if that’ll be an improvement or not. “65 east, 90 south.”

Another short silence, then— “That’s fucking Antarctica.”

I sigh. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe I’m dead wrong.”

“Or maybe those other numbers change what it means.” He’s still looking at the map, eyebrows pulled almost together in concentration. As if he can will it to mean something he understands.

“Or maybe it _does_ mean the Atlantic and Antarctica, and it’s part of a picture we just can’t see yet?”

He sighs heavily, letting his shoulders slump forward. “Your guess is as good as mine.” For a minute he’s the picture of dejection, but then he rolls his shoulders back, stretches his back, and lies down flat on his stomach to stare at the map some more. “But hey, give me a couple more. Just for the heck of it.”

I do. They’re just as random as the first two, but Stan diligently draws little marks on each spot. When he does surrender and sit back, it still looks like a big fat nothing, but his mood has improved.

“Who knows,” he tells me, pushing himself back up to his feet. “Right now it’s just another mystery to add to the pile. But that’s all I got right now anyhow. Least it’s an idea!” He gives me a smile—the sweet, utterly heart-melting kind. I grin back like an idiot.

I’m still smiling (and maybe blushing a little) when he extends his hand to help me to my feet. I’m such a sucker, damn it! But it’s…well, it’s _Stan_. I accept his help in getting upright, then grab onto the edge of the desk before dropping back into my chair. I should say something. I can’t think of anything, so I yank my eyes away from his face. Better. Mostly.

“Thanks.” No points for creativity, but at least I’ve said something that isn’t weird and awkward. “So do we accept our victory and call it a day?”

“Nah, I still gotta finish checking for rats and rust. You’re not trying to cut out of work early, are you?”

“What’re you, my boss?” I deliberately lean further back in my chair. “This is vacation for me, remember? You do your thing, I’ll take a nap.”

“Don’t think I won’t dump you outta that chair,” he warns.

“But you just helped me back _into_ it,” I protest innocently. In reality, I _know_ he’ll dump me out. This feels all too reminiscent of a boating trip I took with Stan when we were first dating. He threatened to throw me out of my seat then, too.

On second thought, the basement floor is a lot less forgiving than the lake. My body’s been through enough this week. Maybe I should back down.

Quickly, I reach for the stack of books on the desk. “Okay, how else can I help?”

That brings Stan up short. He stops and stares at me, looking almost… _wounded_. “You’re actually scared of me?”

“No.” I allow myself a small smirk. “I just really don’t want to risk getting thrown on the floor!”

I can see him relax. It’s very touching to learn he was worried about that. “Yeah. You…you _better_ be scared of me.” He starts walking toward the door to the portal, but has one more line to throw over his shoulder at me. “You don’t hold up your end of the deal, I’m gonna stop making you coffee.”

I gasp in horror. “You wouldn’t _dare_!”

He grins. “Sure I would. I’ve seen the way you look at that coffee, and I’ll tell you something—it’s been a long time since anyone’s looked at _me_ like that.”

He says it with good humor, and passes on through the door before I have a chance to react. But it makes me want to grab him and shout _What are you talking about? I do! I look at you like that all the time!_ And then kiss him for good measure, to prove my point.

Of course I’m not going to do _that_. For so many reasons, not least of which is that it’s not technically true. I look at my gray-haired, glasses-wearing, scarred-up Stan like that. This younger version is just as likable, but he hasn’t…well, actually now I think about it…

I get to my feet, and limp inelegantly through the door into the room with the portal. Stan’s on his hands and knees, half hidden by one of the enormous pieces of metal. I take a few more hops closer, and he sticks his head out from behind it. “Yeah?”

I sink down onto my calves, folding my legs back under me so that I’m looking up at him instead of the other way around. “You’re the crazy one,” I inform him. “I know how I look at a cup of that coffee, too. Like I’m not going to survive the day without it. And there’s no way I don’t look at you like that, because I _really_ wouldn’t survive the day without you.” He dusts his hands off on his pants and comes out, giving me his full attention. I expand on my statement. “You had no idea who I was, and you took off my wet clothes, put me in your own bed, and spent half the night making sure I warmed up instead of dying. You’re continuing to feed me and house me. You treat me like I’m a friend instead of an imposition. I don’t say it because it feels so awkward, but honestly, Stan? You’re my hero right now.”

I know how Stan gets when I tell him he’s important to me, so I expect this speech to make an impression on him. He does look affected, for a few seconds, but then he starts to smile. When I’m done speaking, it turns into a laugh.

It’s difficult not to be a little put out. “What?” I demand with hurt feelings.

He brings it back down to a light chuckle, but he’s still grinning and shaking his head at me. “You got it wrong, sweetie. That’s not how you look at a cup of coffee.”

My brow crinkles. “It’s not?”

He smirks down at me, highly entertained. “Nope. You don’t look at it like you _need_ it.” He adds finger quotes to the word. “You _want_ it. You want it bad. You look at it like you need it in you. Not soon. _Now_. Like you’re already thinking about how it’s gonna feel when you bring the mug up to your mouth.”

Holy shit, did it just get warm in here? “…Oh,” I say at length. What else can I say? I feel like I’m breathing too fast and shallow. So much for trying to be noble.

He laughs again, but it seems like he’s laughing more at himself than me. “Thanks, though. Good to know I’m a hero.” He hits me with his classic finger-gun and wink before disappearing behind the metal panel again.

I’m sure my face is _bright_ red as I creep back out to the main room.

*

The whisky is some blended stuff that makes me cough every time I take anything more than a dainty sip, but from the way that makes Stan smirk it’s clear he’s already underestimating me. I feel like this is something I can use to my advantage. It might not go down smooth, but I can handle more than a couple shots. And I’m pretty good at poker.

The real trick is going to be not doing anything truly stupid after I’ve had those shots. After this morning, I don’t entirely trust myself _not_ to start looking at Stan like he’s a cup of coffee.

We’re back at the small kitchen table with a deck of cards and a bottle of cheap liquor between us. Rules have been established. Five card draw. Each time you fold, you take a sip. Each time you lose a hand outright, you down whatever’s in your cup. Gentleman that he is, Stan has poured barely a quarter shot into my glass, and a little over a half in his own. I’ve expressed some doubts over how long this game is going to last, and in response he’s laughingly assured me he won’t let me choke on my puke if I pass out.

_Such_ a gentleman.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” I assure him with bravado. “And I promise not to gloat when you lose.”

He smiles as he starts dealing. “Oh, _you’re_ gonna lose. But I like your style.”

I watch him carefully as he tosses cards. Mostly, I’m looking for marks on them. There are a few well-worn corners on some of the cards, but there are also a few small pen marks that I’m sure were deliberate, and I love the deft way his hands move as he deals. It’s still strange, seeing those hands with missing scars and age spots. I mean, some of the scars are there. The one along his forearm is—what the fuck, Teagan, get it together or you’re never going to win a hand against him!

I wet my lips nervously and focus on memorizing the specific little marks in the backs of the cards. I need a lot of luck to win this first hand, but once I get a feel for the deck I can show him a thing or two.

I take a look at the cards in my current hand, peeking over the top to look at the backs of Stan’s cards. He has two with tiny marks on them—cheating right from the get-go? He’s not messing around. Me, I have…nothing. One queen, but nothing to go with it. I move cards around in my hand for a minute, then fold them all together so he can only see the back of the top one. I tap the hand thoughtfully against the edge of the table, waiting until he’s looking elsewhere before I drop the hidden Queen into my lap. I shift around, hopefully looking like I’m bouncing in excitement as I conceal the card between my thighs. There. That should come in handy later.

Stan’s looking at me. I meet his eyes, showing I have nothing to hide. It’s on the verge of turning into a staring contest when he drops his eyes and discards two of the unmarked cards in his hand, replacing them from the deck. I trade in three, because what the heck. I’m not winning this round anyhow.

I have a pair now, but it’s a low one. I fold quickly, dropping my cards back into the pile before he can notice I’m one short. Stan blinks in surprise, then grins. I drink about half of what’s in my cup, and he’s quick to top it off for me. The next hand I show a bit more spine, actually challenging him by laying down a pair of sixes. I lose again, but I’m expecting that. Even after adding the contents of my cup to my earlier mouthful, I’m not feeling much of anything. Easy to turn this around.

And then next hand, earlier than I was expecting, I do turn it around. Pure luck deals me a pair of jacks. When I trade in two of my other cards, I wind up with a third. I keep my hand well-hidden so that Stan can only see the back of one, but even so I catch the scowl that flits over his face; he knows I have at least one good card. He doesn’t fold, though, so when I beat his two pair it’s a truly satisfying moment. He drinks without complaint, but watches me more carefully after that.

I’ve thought ahead, though. There’s the queen tucked between my thighs, and there’s the fact that I put on the shorts and tank top I arrived in before this game. The tank top isn’t exactly scandalous, but it’s tighter and more low-cut than any of Stan’s old t-shirts have been. If I need to stoop really low, I can just…well, stoop really low, literally. I can’t count on the power of cleavage to distract him every time, and I’m hardly a femme fatale, but I’m not above using my assets here and there in the name of winning at poker.

Stan would be so proud.

I win two of the next three hands, which means we’re pretty fairly matched in terms of alcohol consumption. I’m feeling it just slightly at this point, enough to feel good without impairing my abilities. Since I’m still surviving through luck and paying close attention to the marked cards when they come up in the deck, this is probably a very good thing.

“I gotta say, you’re doing better than I thought,” Stan tells me as he deals a fresh hand.

“At what?” I pick up my cards as he gives them to me, keeping my face impassive. “Holding my liquor, or kicking your ass?”

His eyebrows fly up. “At talking a big game.” He picks up his own hand. “The night’s still young, sweetie.”

We exchange insults and bluster during the following hands, with increasingly obvious enjoyment. I can’t even keep a straight face anymore when I tell him it’s a good thing there’s no one around to see him lose to a secretary. He’s grinning when he responds that he hopes I’m taking notes during the next hand. I sneak my queen back into my hand and pull off a straight shortly after that, and proceed to giggle on and off for several minutes about the look on his face when he saw it.

After that, unfortunately, I have a few hands with not a face card among them. I pull off a win through card-reading and stubbornness, refusing to fold on a hand when neither of us have anything at all; my nothing holds a higher card than his. The time right after that, however, the same plan backfires and I wind up downing my whole cup. Even with it only half full, I’m up to a few shots by now. I know I can hold a few more, but the goal is to _not_ get full-on drunk. I enjoy being tipsy, especially if I have nowhere to go and nothing to wake up early for. I don’t even really mind Stan beating me. But I don’t want to get completely trashed.

One more full shot, that’s what I’ll give myself. If I have to drink any more than that, I’ll conceded defeat and call it a night.

The fact that I can tell when he has a good hand is really helpful in this endeavor. Every time I can see that he’s got more than one high card, I fold. And I know that my holding my cards so that he can rarely see all the backs is driving him quietly crazy. The fact that he’s no longer telling me long, ridiculous stories between hands is also a good clue that he’s feeling the affects of his losing hands, too. Stan’s not a huge drinker, but I’ve seen him overindulge enough times that I know he gets quiet when he’s had too much.

“How do you keep _doing_ that?” he demands at one point when my low straight beats his two pair.

“I knew you didn’t have much,” I admit with a coy smile. The truth is that I’d been holding back another card for just this occasion, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“What’re you talking about,” he snorts.

“I’m saying,” I say with a long, slightly provocative stretch of my arms, “that I can read you like a book.”

“Not likely,” he says, matching my stretch. It shouldn’t have any affect on me, but it does. Just a little. I giggle, and he grins. “You’re drunk! I win.”

“Bull _shit_ you do,” I protest, shuffling the cards back into the deck. “I won the last hand. We’re done when _I_ say we’re done.”

“What, we’re not playing till you pass out on the floor?”

“What makes you think I’d _let_ myself pass out on the floor?”

Another grin. “Cause you’re having fun.”

I wink at him. “Cause I’m winning.” I shuffle all the cards again, fanning them against each other. “Also cause my foot doesn’t hurt right now. Which is _pretty_ fucking amazing, gotta tell you.” I deal us each five cards and scoop mine up quickly before he can get a good look.

“Cool, let’s go dancing.” He surveys his own cards, grin melting into the practiced bland of a poker face.

“You wanna _dance_ with me?” I giggle. “I can’t even take a walk in the woods without spraining an ankle, and you wanna take me _dancing_?” I push three cards across the table, drawing three more from the pile. I have two of a kind, but let’s see if I can make it…oh, darn. Well two of a kind with a king high isn’t terrible. I can only see one marked card in his hand, so the real question is how lucky do I feel.

I’m gonna go for it. I watch Stan, keeping my face impassive, as I wait to see what he’ll do.

“I like dancing,” he says, almost dreamily. “Bet you’re better than you say.”

My calm expression dissolves into giggles again. “I’m really not. I was born with a terminal case of no rhythm.”

“Well, now we gotta find out.” He sets his cards face down on the table and jumps up energetically. I haven’t even stopped giggling when he grabs my right hand, pulls me to my feet, and spins me outward.

I wobble and realize my ankle isn’t quite as great as I thought, but for some reason I’m still laughing. “Stan! Stop it!”

He spins me back in, and when my ankle folds under me he turns it smoothly into a dip. “See? You’re a natural.”

I shake my head, helplessly amused. “There’s not even any music!”

“So?” He pulls me back out of the dip, taking both my hands.

He steps left to an imaginary beat, and I move along with him. “You’re just doing this because you have a bad hand.”

“So?” He tugs one hand closer, stepping back with the same foot, and I awkwardly follow the movement.

I laugh again. “You can’t. Stop. I’m terrible!”

He drops my hand, bringing his arm around my waist and pulling me up against him instead. “Nah. You’re doing fine.”

My ankle threatens to give out again, and I put my arms around his neck so that I can support myself. It does make it possible for me to stumble along with his movements, but I’m quite sure I’m not doing _fine_. “You need to up your standards.”

“I’m not sure how you figure that.” He puts his other hand on my waist, too, but we’re not slow dancing. He’s got something playing in his head, that much is clear—and I’m getting dragged along. But he’s a good dancer. I don’t need to be one myself to tell that.

“Oh come on. There’s got to be some place you can go in town to let off some steam.” I’ve figured out that it’s easier to keep my eyes locked up, on his face, rather than try and figure out the movements. He knows what he’s doing, and we’re close enough right now that he can persuade my body to follow along.

“I’d still have to find somebody to dance with.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I doubt you’d have any trouble with that.”

“Says the drunk lady.”

Another giggle from me. “Shush. You’re only tolerating my terrible dancing because _you’re_ drunk.”

“Hm.” He digests that and smiles slowly. “Maybe.”

We do a quick step to the left, followed by a little half-spin and a step back to the right. “You make this almost—” I make the mistake of putting too much pressure on my ankle, and whatever I’m about say evaporates halfway to my lips. “Okay ow. Shit.” I lean hard into him, hanging all my weight around his neck in my hurry to get it off my foot. “Shit. Shit. This was a bad idea.”

“Course it was.” He scoops me easily up and off both feet, swaying slightly but holding me securely. “Best ideas always are.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” But I lean my head against his chest anyway.

“Where to, your highness?”

I breathe out a soft laugh. “How about the living room. Maybe it’s time to admit defeat at cards.”

“Damn. Should have been playing for money,” he remarks as he carries me to my usual spot in the living room.

“Don’t have any, member?” I flop back against my pillow. “We’re clearly both drunker than we thought. Maybe. Um. Glass of water?” I tip my head into the cushion and close my eyes. My ankle is throbbing, but in a distant, unimportant way.

“Yeah…yeah,” Stan agrees. I open my eyes to see him steadying himself on the arm of his chair before heading slowly back into the kitchen. Then I close them again. I’m still awake, though, when he comes back in with a large cup of water. And my head feels marginally clearer after a few long gulps from it.

“Thanks.” I set the glass down beside me and lean back into my pillow again. “So next time. We’re gonna do that with music. I can’t, um. Follow along to the tune in your head.”

I hear him laugh softly somewhere to my left. “Next time, eh?”

“Yeah,” I confirm, only slightly slurred. “Next time.” There’s silence for a moment. I open my eyes. “We watching a movie tonight?”

He grunts, pushing himself more upright in his chair. “You waited till I was sitting down to say that, didn’t you.”

“Not on purpose.” I hang onto my dubious sobriety, forcing myself to sit up a bit more as well. “Unless you just dig on sitting here silently, I don’t think I’m good for much else.”

Another minute of silence follows. “Yeah, okay.” He hauls himself to his feet and looks through the box of tapes under his tv. “You seen this one?” he asks, holding up a cover for me to see.

“Amazingly, no. It’s it a horror movie?”

“What? No, it’s a comedy. Aliens and old people. It’s funny. Mostly.”

I’ve only known about the movie in an abstract sort of way, but this still surprises me. “Huh! Okay, well, I trust you.”

He seems pleased by that, smiling to himself as he ejects last night’s tape from the VCR. While he’s preoccupied, I slide my back up the side of his armchair and flop over backward into it. It lacks a good spot to prop up my foot, but it’s much more comfortable than my spot on the floor.

Stan turns around to find me relaxing happily in his spot. “Hey!”

I’m not even sitting in it properly, but draped sideways over the arms. “Yes?”

He walks over and stares down at me with his hands on his hips. “You like doing this, don’t you.”

“Doing what?” I grin. “I like this chair. I figured it was my turn in it.”

“Yeah, well, you figured wrong.” He leans over, sliding his arms under my knees and shoulders. “This is _my_ chair.” Then, to my complete surprise, he does _not_ pick me up and transfer me back to the floor. He picks me up and takes the spot over without bothering to put me down. “You wanna sit in it, you gotta share.”

“I’m not sitting in it now at all,” I protest, shifting to a move comfortable position in his lap. “I’m just sitting on _you_.”

“Nah, you’re, uh. Look, you’re touching it right there.” He moves his hand out from under my knees so that he can point out where my calves are resting on the chair’s arm.

I like the feeling of his stomach against my side, and the dark hair on his arms is brushing my neck. I decide to tolerate this turn of events and snuggle into a position that’s more comfortable without being too provocative. “Well, I hope you’ve got the remote already. You’re not getting back up now.”

He swears. “Guess we’re watching the previews.”

“That’s okay.” I yawn. “Not like fast-forward really saves that much time anyhow.”

We watch one of the ancient previews for a movie I’ve never even heard of before he asks “You really gonna stay here?”

“Why not?” I snuggle contentedly against him. “You’re comfy.” Without thinking, I let my fingertips trail down the front of his shirt. “You’re better than the chair, actually. And I like you.” Stan says nothing, but his stillness makes it impossible to miss the soothing raise and fall of his chest. “I can feel you breathing!” Sobriety raises its head from somewhere deep down, shaking its head in dismay at my behavior. Mentally, I give it the stink eye—but I also accept that it may have a slight point. I turn my head back toward the tv. “And you’re a good dancer,” I add stubbornly. Fuck you, Sober Teagan.

“You’re nice when you’re drunk,” he tells me with a smile a minute into the next preview.

I start giggling again. “What are you talking about, I’m always nice.”

“Not _this_ nice.” He lifts his eyebrows suggestively. “Hey. If I said you had a nice body…”

“I’d _absolutely_ hold it against you,” I tell him, not realizing the double-entendre of this until the words are already out of my mouth. “Shit.” I giggle harder. “You _tricked_ me!”

Smiling wide, like a cat who’s just swallowed a canary, Stan settles back into his seat. “Quit laughing. I can’t hear the movie.”

“You said it’s a comedy! You’re supposed to laugh at comedies!”

“I’ll give you something to laugh about,” he warns, tickling my side. I immediately squirm and he doubles down, tickling me mercilessly until my giggles turn into squawks of protest.

“Stop it! Stop it!” I squeal, and he does. But he’s still grinning triumphantly.

The previews finally end and the movie starts up. “You probably love this,” he remarks during a scene where a bunch of retired men are living it up in a swimming pool. “All those wrinkly old guys.”

“Ew!” I laugh. “I like _one_ guy that age, not…wait. We’re not acknowledging that. Remember?”

He glances down at me. “Right, right.” A moment passes, but he just can’t leave it alone. “So this isn’t, like, getting you all hot?”

I smack him playfully in the chest, and he laughs. “Stan…shut up and watch the movie.”


	7. Chapter 7

Having passed out relatively early the night before, I’m up bright and early. I might have drunk enough to embarrass myself a little, but I did stop short of drinking enough to give me a serious hangover. I feel fairly functional and am happy about getting a chance to shower before Stan’s awake.

I do cringe a few times while remembering some of the things I said and did last night, but it’s not severe enough to want to avoid him. Honestly, it could have been a lot worse. I didn’t confuse him with my Stan. We didn’t sleep together. I didn’t even pass out before the end of the movie, though I admit last night was the deepest, longest rest I’ve gotten since I arrived.

Crap. I should stop thinking about words like _deep_ and _long_. That is, apparently, one negative side effect of my flirting last night.

I turn that thought over in my mind during my shower. Of _course_ I’m attracted to Stan. That really shouldn’t be such a point of confusion. We’ve had chemistry almost since the day we met in 2013, which has only gotten stronger over time. And despite lacking gray hair, age lines, and twenty years of experiences and knowledge, this is still very definitely Stan. He’s just younger, handsomer, lonelier… If he’d recognized me when I arrived, I’m sure we’d hardly have left his bed all week. Just imagining that makes me very aware of all the hot water coursing over my naked body.

I’ve been attempting to make my shower quick so that I don’t overstress my good leg, but right now I lean into the wall, close my eyes, and let myself imagine a scenario where Stan accidentally walks in here while I’m showering, and instead of shrieking I pull him in with me. I create a lot of details in my mind: both of us wet, naked, hair plastered down our backs as our hands slide over each other’s skin, bending over, hands, mouths, penetration…

I have to sit down on the floor of the tub for a little while.

After a few minutes I’m able to finish washing my hair, turn off the faucet, and dry off. That’s a fun little fantasy, sure, but that’s all it is. I have a relationship with Stan twenty-five years from now. I wouldn’t trade what we have—our little jokes, our nicknames, our stories, his scars, his lines, his gray hairs, his terrible jokes, his lack of tact, his love of period dramas and old cars and money—for anything. He’s perfect the way he is. To give into temptation with this younger man would risk all of that. And in an absurdist, bizarro kind of way, it’d be cheating. No way, no how.

As I’m combing out my hair with Stan’s comb, I round up all my hormones and fantasies and squash them. I am going to be nice to him because I like him, he needs a friend, and he’s helping me. I’m going to get back to my own time, jump my boyfriend first chance I get, kiss every inch I can of his lined skin, and ride him as long and as hard as possible. After that I will fall asleep in his arms and pretend this was all just a weird dream.

I dress once more in the clothes I arrived in. They’re not warm enough, and I plan to steal another t-shirt of Stan’s at my earliest opportunity so that I’ll have an extra layer for sitting around that giant underground lab. I examine my reflection in the mirror briefly, wish futilely for a hair tie, and drink some tap water from my palms. By now I’m more than ready to sit down again, so I proceed back downstairs on my butt. No sign of Stan yet. Guess I’m making my own coffee.

It's weirdly quiet, walking around the dark and empty shack. The living area and gift shop in particular seem unnatural without at least half a dozen people in them. But there’s not another human being for miles—just me and the guy asleep upstairs. I crawl softly into the kitchen and flip the light switch. My coffee is never quite as good as the stuff Stan makes, but I know how to make a drinkable pot of joe. I balance on one leg as I fill up the carafe in the sink and slide back along the counter to dump it into the machine. I’m adding scoops of grounds when a strange sound catches my attention. Outside. Something rumbling and scraping in the distance.

Quickly, I add the grounds to the machine and turn it on. I can’t see anything but pale morning winter sunlight and snowbanks from the nearest window. I crawl over to the window that I know looks out on the road, instead. The sound is getting louder as its source comes closer. And I know that sound. Excitement and relief flare inside me simultaneously and continue to simmer until the moment the plow actually comes into site.

If I could run up the stairs, I would. Since I can’t, I clap my hands together and bring them up in front of the delighted grin on my face. So many possibilities have opened up with the arrival of this precious, wonderful, amazing vehicle. It’s tempting to crawl back upstairs and wake Stan to give him the news, but I’m not sure how hungover he is from last night. It seems wiser to let him wake up on his own. We’re practically out of bread after last night, so I leave the last of it for him and have a second cup of coffee instead. There will be real food tonight. _Real food!_ I could kiss that plow truck.

I sit down at the table with my leg propped up, sipping my second mugful of sweet coffee and thumbing through the journal we brought up with us last night. I make myself take another look at one of the driest, most scientific pages, trying stubbornly to glean something of use. It’s dull, but I find that I can keep my focus if I go back and forth between those entries and the more interesting ones. It doesn’t mean I come to any revelations, but at least I’m progressing.

That’s how Stan finds me when he finally enters the kitchen. As soon as the footsteps stop, I look up to see him in the doorway. He’s watching me in what I guess is quiet surprise. I beam at him. “There’s coffee in the pot,” I say, “but it’s not as good as when you make it.” I wait a few seconds before revealing the big news. “And the plows came.”

“No kidding!” He seems less impressed with this than I was, but pleased all the same. He goes to the window to see for himself, stares for a minute, then turns back to take the last of the coffee. “So I guess you’re gonna bug me till I go get you a whole shopping cart full of stuff?” he asks with his back still to me.

“Not a whole cart.” I close the book and stretch my back out. “A clean pair of underwear, an ace bandage, a toothbrush, some more bread and some fresh vegetables, a pair of sweats…” I tick these off on my fingers as I try to think of what else I really need. “I ser—”

“Ah, see? You’re already adding to the list. You _never_ mentioned an ace bandage before.”

I snort in amusement, pulling my ankle off the other chair so he can sit down. “I thought it might come in handy next time you get the impulse to dance me around the room.”

Either he’s still tired or it takes a minute for the memory to come back, because he turns around and stares uncertainly for a minute before his eyes brighten. “Oh! Ha, right.” He turns back to put the last pieces of bread in the toaster. “You’re, uh, not hurt from that, are you?”

I lift my shoulders and let them drop. “I mean, it was already sprained. I don’t think we can make it any worse.”

“That’s the spirit!” He raises his mug to me in a salute before taking a drink from it. “This isn’t half bad. You just gotta add more grounds.”

I did add twice what the container suggested, but all the same I nod sagely at this advice. Clearly, twice the average amount is not enough. “And I left you the last of the toast,” I point out gently. “So please, will you get us something to eat besides canned meat? _Please?_ ”

He sighs as though this is a great sacrifice, and not something that could benefit him as well. “You could come along too, you know. Steal your own stuff?” It sounds more like a question than an order, which I appreciate.

I raise my eyebrows and gesture to my clothing. “I’d rather not.”

He makes a face of displeasure, followed by another sip from the mug. “Right.” The toast is still toasting, but he pulls out the chair opposite me and takes a seat. “Okay, so you make up a list for me. I _guess_ I can get it. I mean, since we’re out of bread anyhow.”

 _We’re_ out of bread. He said _we’re_ , not _I’m_. It’s a silly little thing for me to focus on, but it pleases me on the same. “Thank you,” I say humbly. “And I mean, I know I already said this—but if you want a real home-cooked meal, you tell me what you want, I’ll add the stuff to the list, and I will balance on one leg long enough to cook it.”

There it is again—that look on his face, of innocent surprise and pleasure that someone has any interest in his well-being. Every time I see it, a little dagger twists in my heart, demanding that I do something to let him know how much he’s worth.

A hint of that must be showing on my face, because Stan laughs a little nervously. “Okay. I’ll think about it.” He throws back his head and drains his coffee, even though it must still be nearly scalding. “Lemme go grab some paper from upstairs. Might as well get this over with.”

As soon as he’s hurried out of the room, I hop over to the kitchen cupboards and poke around until I find the spice selection. I need to know what’s already on hand before I start making any sort of grocery list. Most of it is painfully outdated; as far as I can tell, the only dry spices he’s replaced since taking ownership of the Shack are salt and pepper.

“Nosy, aren’t you,” his voice says from behind, making me gasp and jolt. He loves that, slapping his knee as he laughs.

“Give me that,” I snap, blushing, and pull the notepad and pen from his hands. After easing myself back into my seat, I find a blank page and write down _Underpants_. Beneath that, I submit _Hair ties_. I follow it with _Toothbrush, Sweatpants, Ace bandage, Bread, Apples, Eggs, Butter, Sugar, Flour, Vanilla, Baking Powder, Milk._ I pause and look at him. He’s liberally spreading peanut butter on his toast. “We need more peanut butter?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” I add that. “Think of anything you’d like for dinner? Or breakfast, for that matter. I can do eggs and bacon, I can do pancakes, I can do roast chicken, I can do steak, I can do chili, I can do lasagna or spaghetti, I can…”

“You don’t need a cookbook or something?” he asks incredulously on his way back to the table.

I shake my head. “This stuff’s simple. I know it by heart.”

“Spaghetti,” he says without pausing to think. “And put down bacon and eggs, too.” After thinking for a minute, he does admit “Some chicken might be good for a few days.”

“Leftover chicken makes great sandwiches,” I agree with a smile. I wouldn’t recommend stealing a bunch of raw meat, but I think it’d be rude to make the _assumption_ that he’s not going to pay for it. He does, sometimes. I jot down chicken, potatoes, bacon, tomato sauce, noodles, garlic, and everything else that goes along with the menu. I stare at the list for a while, trying to think if there’s any component I’ve forgotten.

A few toast crumbs land on the notebook; Stan’s peering over my shoulder. “What’s a hair tie?”

Seriously? Oh wait, this is the 80s. “Like a scrunchie. It’s a rubber band especially for hair. A clip would work too, I guess. I’m just sick of mine hanging loose and getting in my face all the time. They’d be in the same area as hairbrushes and stuff.”

“Why can’t you just use a regular rubber band? I got plenty of those lying around.”

I make a face of displeasure. “Because they rip my hair out. Trust me—I’ve tried, it’s not pretty.”

“Oh.” He nods, digesting that, and continues leaning over my back to read. “You know, _underpants_ is pretty vague. You just gonna make me guess on the size and all?”

The man has a point. I don’t really want to end up with a tiny thong or giant pair that goes up higher than my shorts. I sigh as I push myself back to my feet and undo my shorts. “Okay, please don’t read too much into this.” Trying not to be rushed and awkward, as if this is something I do every day, I push my shorts down my thighs so that he gets a clear view of my faded cotton bikini panties. “Something like this. Medium. Not lace.” I turn enough to let him see that my butt has actual fabric going over it, then pull my shorts back into place.

I sit back down. Stan is doing a very bad job of suppressing the grin on his face, but at least it looks like he’s trying. “You need a new bra, too?”

“No,” I attempt to say sternly, but instead my lips curve into a smile. “Or rather, I’d never trust anyone to buy one for me. I’m picky. Nice try, but that’s your eyeful for the day.”

He’s still smirking. “You better show me one more time. Important mission like this, I wouldn’t wanna mess it up, you know?”

“Oh, in the name of the _mission_ ,” I remark, still more entertained and flattered than I ought to be. I get back to my feet and wiggle my shorts back down again. Half the time I don’t even wear shorts under his giant t-shirts, this shouldn’t be a big deal. “There. Got it? Satisfied?”

“Don’t you think I should know what it feels like?” he asks. Where he’s standing is suddenly a little close for comfort.

My throat feels tight. “Is that really relevant?”

Oh no, he’s close enough to kiss me. The energy between us is almost palpable. “Wouldn’t wanna get the wrong fabric.”

Breathing shallow, I take his hand and move his fingers to the very top of my panties, barely enough to pinch the material. “It’s cotton.” I yank my shorts back into place before he does anything that can change my mind.

“Got it.” He doesn’t seem to want to step back, so I break the tension by plopping my butt back into my chair. “Anything else I need to clarify?”

Stan pulls his eyes away from me and back to the list. I watch his lips moving faintly as he reads. “Nah, should be easy.”

I suspect he’s less confident than he sounds, but I don’t question it. “Wonderful. What can I do while you’re out?”

He thinks about that, drumming his fingers on the table. “Let’s go down now. I’ll get you set up down there and you can keep an eye on the machines for me.”

I spin a sarcastic celebratory finger in the air. “Woooo.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He shoves the rest of his toast into his mouth and bends down to pick me up.

“Again, I can walk.” I stick the journal in my lap and loop my arms around his neck anyway.

“Stuff it,” he tells me with his mouth full.

*

I’m still not making any breakthroughs in the lab. I know that’s a good thing in terms of continuity and my future and everything. I know, realistically, that I _can’t_ make any major breakthroughs. Not just because I’ve been doing this three days and Stan’s been doing it seven years, but because if I stumble onto something significant down here it might literally change the world.

And yet I feel like I _should_ have something to show for all my time in the hidden lab. Stan’s out there getting a bunch of stuff for me, and aside from that initial episode of locking me down here, he’s been a wonderful host. I want to be able to do something useful for him in return.

Well, at the very least he can see that I’m trying. I have the map and list of readouts again, and I’m lying on my stomach on the floor with a jar of pushpins I found, sticking them into every single coordinate. I’ve only been doing it half an hour or so, since I spent the first hour down here working on understanding a complicated cypher. It gave me a headache, so I switched to this.

It seems like half the day has gone by when I hear the elevator grinding in the wall. He’s back! I sit up eagerly, watching the door expectantly like a puppy. My stomach grumbles pointedly, and I cast a quick glare at it. “Shut up.”

“Yeah, nice to see you too,” Stan responds as the door swings open.

“Not you!” I exclaim in dismay. He’s got a sour expression on his face that I sincerely hope I’m not responsible for. “My stomach was reminding me that I skipped breakfast.”

“Oh.” His face softens as he walks over. “Well, you don’t have to skip lunch!” He stops before me, taking a deep theatrical bow and allowing himself a smile.

I clap my hands delightedly. “My hero! How did it go?”

He drops down onto the floor beside me, eyeing over my work. “I didn’t ask you to do this.”

“I know.” My voice carries an unspoken apology. “But I still feel like there’s something…” I sigh, shaking my head. “I don’t know. I wanted to give it another go. Like maybe if I put enough pins in, we’ll step back and it’ll spell out a clue.” I snort in laughter. “Now that I’m saying that out loud, it sounds stupid.”

“Not _that_ stupid.” Stan cocks his head to the side and squints his eyes at the map. “That looks like a line on that side.” He gestures with his finger.

“So I have your permission to keep at it?” I ask hopefully.

He shrugs and stops squinting. “Can’t hurt. You get anything else done?”

I jerk my head toward all the books sitting by the chair. “I learned cryptograms are stupid and I hate them.”

That gets me a grin. “Shit, that’s no good. I learned _that_ years ago.”

I laugh softly. “So? How _did_ it go out there?”

“Come on up.” He pushes himself back to his feet and offers me a hand. “See for yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do!” I take his hand, but he’s only just started to pull me up when he abruptly lets go. “Ow!” I say reflexively as I land back on the ground. He only dropped me a few inches, so it doesn’t really hurt—the exclamation is more from surprise than anything.

“Almost forgot.” He reaches into his back pocket and triumphantly produces a rolled (and squashed) ace bandage. “Here you go.”

I stop complaining about being dropped immediately. “Yay! Thank you!” I hold out my hand for the bandage, bending my knee and positioning my ankle where I can reach it. He doesn’t pass it to me. I’m still holding out my hand, waiting, and when it remains empty I look up at him expectantly. He looks…hesitant. “Stan?”

He continues to hesitate a few more seconds, but eventually spits it out. “I can do it.” He glances sideways, not at me. “I wrap my hands for boxing, I figure it’s the same kinda thing.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a great idea. Also pretty adorable, that he feels so awkward about offering. “Thank you! That’d be great. Believe it or not, I’ve never had to wrap my own ankle before. If you know what you’re doing, by all means.”

Now that I’ve accepted, he relaxes immediately. With a surprisingly shy smile, he sits opposite me and picks my foot up carefully, resting it on his knee as he unwraps the bandage. He glances down at it, then over to my good foot. “This looks terrible.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks, doctor.”

His eyes dart up to my face, then back to my foot. “I mean, that’s really swollen.”

“Yeah,” I say sourly. “That’s why you’re wrapping it.”

He shakes his head, shrugs, shakes his head again, and proceeds to wrap it in silence. I watch him deftly loop it around and over and under, wondering abstractly how long sprains _do_ stay swollen for. I miss the internet.

“That okay?” He stops wrapping to press gently upward on the bottom of my foot. I wince, but the flash of pain passes.

“Yeah.”

He nods in satisfaction, holding it in that position as he loops the bandage around several more times and clips the end in place. I lift my leg up, examining the work. I don’t know how it’ll hold up when I try to stand, but the pressure of the bandage is pleasantly tight and secure. I let out a tiny sigh of relief. I hadn’t realized how much difference it would make to have that extra support. “Looks good. Thanks.”

Stan gets back to his feet. “Let’s get upstairs and you can try it out.”

I’m secretly relieved that I don’t have to immediately test it on the stairs, readily allowing him to scoop me up. “Does carrying me around make you feel like an action hero?”

One side of his mouth quirks up ever so slightly. “That’d be stupid.” He carries me over to the door.

“Wait, don’t we need to clean up and everything?” I glance back at the lists and pins lying on the floor.

“Nah. We’ll come back down later.”

Can’t argue with that.

“So now the roads are cleared,” I ask as we’re riding the elevator to the staircase, “are you going to start getting customers again?”

He snorts. “Yeah, roads are clear, first place I’m gonna go is the Mystery Shack.”

I smile. “I was figuring the roads in town got plowed a day or two ago, and you were just last on the list on account of being in the middle of nowhere.”

I suspect I’m right, because he doesn’t respond to that statement. “Now they’ve seen in me in town, they’ll know the place is open again. Might get a _few_. Most of them’ll be out sledding or something, though.”

“So should I make myself scarce?” I inquire. I have to keep talking while he’s carrying me, or else it feels weird.

“Eh.” The elevator opens, and he shoulders through the door back into the gift shop. “Just don’t go through this door if anyone’s around.”

“I’m not _stupid_ ,” I respond as we enter the kitchen. Stan releases me, but I keep an arm around his shoulder as my feet connect with the floor. I’m still too nervous to put much pressure on my sprained ankle, but I do manage to stand upright without looking like a flamingo. I let go of his shoulder and take a shaky step back, grinning. “That’s an improvement!”

“Good. Then you can do your own shopping next time.” He sounds gruff, but I suspect he’s pleased. There are several full plastic bags on the kitchen counter. I hobble over to investigate. The first one is groceries: ground beef, chicken breast, bacon, some canned tomatoes, a box of pasta. I nod approval and peek into the next bag. Apples, potatoes, onion. I immediately grab an apple and take a bite out of it. Sweet, crunchy, incredible. I chew and swallow quickly, then stick it back into my mouth, holding it in place with my teeth as I poke through the third bag. More groceries. Everything I need to bake as well as cook now. I can’t wait to make this place smell like fresh cookies!

My excitement is tempered by the fact that I’m not seeing any of my less-edible requests. Trying not to appear anxious, I take the apple out of my mouth and look over at Stan.

“I had a close call,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture I recognize as embarrassment. “The food all went fine, but I popped into this other store to look for your stuff, and they were asking way too many questions. This one lady had eyes like a hawk. I had to get outta there.” The bastard waits for me to conclude this means I still have no clean clothes and get disappointed about the fact. Then he reaches into his other pocket and produces a handful of fabric. “So I didn’t have time to grab any sweatpants.” He grins ear to ear.

I seize the fabric out of his palm, only examining it once I’ve got it in my possession. Pink and purple elastic hair ties—hideous, but hey, it’s the 80s. Not one pair of cotton underpants, but two. They’re not exactly like the ones I’ve got on me, but they’re clean and look comfortable. There’s a cheap packaged toothbrush in the center of the bundle. I tighten my fist around all of it, clutching the whole handful to my chest and squealing happily. Then I fling my arms around Stan, hugging him hard. “ _Thank_ you. You just saved my sanity.” I keep my hands on his arms as I lean back, beaming at him. “You’re the best, Stan.”

“Course I am.”

I let go and hobble toward the steps as quickly as I can. The wrap on my ankle really is helping, though his reaction when he took a look at it tells me it’s going to be a while before I’m fully mended. “I’m putting them on right now.”

“You don’t have to go all the way upstairs,” he protests, almost making it sound like he only mentions it because he’s worried about me. “Do it right here. I’ll close my eyes.” I pause at the bottom of the steps, turning back to show him my skeptical face. “Scout’s honor?”

I bite my lower lip, but it doesn’t stop the giggle I’m trying to contain. “You cannot possibly expect me to believe you were ever a boy scout.” I turn back to the steps as an image of what might happen if I _did_ change clothes in the kitchen sneaks into my head. It’s pretty steamy, and has nothing to do with cooking. _The kitchen floor, Teagan, really?_ “Besides, I’m due for some more ibuprofen.”

“Will you at least show ‘em to me later?” His voice follows me up the stairs.

“You’ve already seen them,” I retort smartly, and retreat to the upstairs bathroom.

*

The first thing I do when I get back downstairs is finish my apple. The next thing I do is spend another two hours in the laboratory. I read another chapter on cryptography, cementing my hatred for it, and dedicate the reminder of my time to sticking pins into the world map on the floor. This time, Stan joins me in the endeavor. If we had some background music or something, it might actually be enjoyable. Then again, music would probably sabotage my concentration anyhow. I need all the focus I can get.

There are _so_ many data points to enter. I wish I hadn’t started this in the middle of the floor, but transferring it anywhere else now would be impossible. The disturbing thing, at least for me, is that a vague pattern is starting to emerge in the pins. They’re forming a rough triangle. There are some outliers, and a big group of them in the middle, but the shape is definitely there. I can’t think what this would mean, but it makes me uneasy. I hope I haven’t accidentally stumbled onto something critical.

And then, I kind of hope I _have_ , too. The longer I spend down here assisting Stan, the more I want to see him succeed. He doesn’t deserve to spend another two decades toiling away at this, alone, consumed by anger and guilt. Yes, I know he winds up okay. And yes, I have a healthy fear of causality. But I love him. I want to save him from so much of the shit he’s been through.

It's a relief when we pack it in for the day and head back upstairs. I putter around the kitchen slowly but happily, getting things in order. After establishing that I’m not going to fall on my face while cooking, Stan retreats to the tourist side of the building to do some unspecified work. I dice an onion with a pathetically dull steak knife and add it to a sizzling pan along with some ground beef. I enjoy cooking, and soon the heat and smells have me singing happily to myself under my breath. I can almost imagine I’m back home cooking for a houseful of people. I imagine I can hear Dave teaching Dipper chords on his guitar in the next room, or Horace and Nicky playing video games, or Mabel and her friends laughing at a movie. I imagine Stan’s on his way home from the Shack in his El Diablo, ready to sneak up behind me and steal a spoonful of scalding hot sauce out of the pan.

“How soon’s it gonna be ready?” Stan says from behind me, and I jump about a mile.

“Sorry,” I say, putting a hand over my heart as I recover from the shock. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s, uh…fine.” He looks at me like I’m weird to apologize for getting scared. Maybe I am. “Smells good in here.”

I respond with a sunny smile, dropping my hand from my chest and returning to stirring the sauce. The scent of garlic and tomato is almost overwhelming; I’m not surprised he came in to investigate. “It does, doesn’t it! How long’s it been since you actually used these pans?”

He doesn’t answer that. “I asked when it’s gonna be _ready_.”

After giving the sauce another stir, I limp two steps over to where I left the other pot I’m planning on using. “I’m starting the water for noodles now.” I put the pot in the sink and turn on the tap to demonstrate. “Should be on the table in twenty minutes, maybe a little less.”

“Good,” he says, continuing to hover near me. It’s so ridiculously familiar. I roll my eyes, pull a spoon out of the nearest drawer, and scoop some sauce out of the pan with it as I’m putting the second pot on the burner.

I hold the spoon out to him. “Here you go.”

I don’t need to offer twice. He takes the spoon from my hand and tastes it immediately. I’m preoccupied with turning on the second burner and giving the bubbling sauce another healthy stir, so I don’t witness his reaction. But it’s hard not to notice when he sticks the spoon back into the pot for more.

“It goes better with pasta,” I remark calmly, not even looking at him.

“Yeah, but I’m hungry.” Defiantly, he steals one more spoonful. “How’s the foot holding up?”

“Not too bad.” I lean back against the counter, not wanting to get too far away from the simmering pot. “I’ll be glad to sit down, don’t get me wrong, but I was able to stay on my feet for half an hour. That’s an achievement.” I have a hunch I’m going to be feeling it tomorrow, but still. Progress. “What’s tonight’s feature film?”

“Depends what you’re feeling. Comedy or mystery?”

“After the one last night turned out to be _funny_ , I’m kind of feeling horror tonight. Is that an option?”

“The only ones I’ve got are _really_ old. The affects are pretty bad.” Just thinking about them makes him laugh to himself. “They’re not what you’d call _scary_.”

Darn. I know all the good horror films came out in the 80s. Then again, scaring myself right before I sleep alone in the living room of the Mystery Shack probably isn’t the best idea anyway. “How bad are we talking?”

“Terrible.” He reaches past me to take another spoonful of sauce from the pot. I let it slide without comment. It’s a compliment, really.

“Now I have to see it!”

“What, you’re serious?”

I stir the sauce again. The water in the pan behind it is getting warm, but isn’t boiling yet. “Why wouldn’t I be? You say something’s truly terrible, I can’t just let that pass.”

“You don’t wanna watch a _good_ movie instead?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Nope. Curiosity must be satisfied now.”

He smirks and shakes his head. “Hey, whatever you say. Your funeral.”

I laugh a little. “It’s _that_ bad?”  
“Didn’t I say it was?”

“Then why do you even own it?”

“I got it for free.”

“Ah.” I think for a moment, doing a bit more stirring for good measure. “Is there any of that whisky left from last night? I bet a shot or two could turn a bad movie into a really hilarious one.”

“You’re stubborn,” he observes, cocking an eyebrow seriously.

I wink at him. “ _There’s_ the pot calling the kettle black.” Then I realize what I’ve said, and giggle. I don’t use that phrase often, since it opens up so many jokes about my last name. But sometimes it slips out, and now all I can think about is the field day Mabel would be having with it if I were back home. Even after a year, she still thinks calling me _Teakettle_ is the height of hilarity.

Damn it. The giggles subside and I’m left feeling empty and homesick. I give the pot another stir, swallowing forcefully and pushing away the rising tide of melancholy.

Stan notices my change in demeanor, even if he doesn’t understand it. “Your foot bothering you? I can stir it for a minute if you need to sit down.”

I swallow again. “That’s sweet, thank you.” I blink a few times. “But my ankle’s fine. Just feeling homesick, I guess. I’m used to cooking for a crowd.”

“I can eat like a crowd,” he offers with so much enthusiasm I can tell he’s trying to make me feel better.

I take a deep, steadying breath. Not going to break down in the middle of cooking spaghetti. That’d be stupid. The water is almost boiling now, at least. I turn back and manage a weak smile for Stan’s benefit. “That’s good to hear.”

“Hey.” He pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. “We’ll get you back there. Okay?”

This is both the absolute right and absolute wrong thing to say. Without thinking, I fling my arms around his broad chest and bury my face in his shirt. I don’t burst into tears. But I hang onto him like my life depends on it.

My Stan would have returned the embrace immediately, but that’s an unfair comparison. My Stan has months and months of practice. All things considered, this Stan does a pretty stellar job. There’s certainly an awkward moment where he stands frozen, not sure how to react as I embrace him. But then natural instincts take over and his arms circle around my back, tightening and pulling me reassuringly close. I take another slow, deep breath and soak up the support. It feels so good. Just to get held for a minute and know I’m not alone.

It's only the sound of water boiling behind us that prompts me to step out of that embrace. I could have stayed there for a long time, and Stan’s reluctance to let me go is a strong clue that he needs the human contact as much as I do—maybe more. He’s been on his own way too long. I turn that thought aside and shake my head free of excess emotion. The sauce needs to be stirred, and the noodles need to be added.

I cast him a sideways glance as I dump the entire box of spaghetti into the water. “Thanks.”

He clears his throat, and toys with the spoon that’s still in his hand. “Anytime.”

I summon a more genuine smile to my lips. “Ten minutes till this all goes on a plate. Are we eating at the table like civilized people, or in front of the tv like the vulgarians we are?”

“Vulgarians? What, you got a word a day calendar or something?" He elbows me lightly in the ribs. "Seriously, who talks like that?" 

"Your brother," I reply, regretting it the instant the words are out. But it's so true! "I mean. Uh." I clear my throat as Stan starts to smirk. Maybe he'll let me get away with the slip-up this time if I shove some food at him quickly enough. "I just meant eating spaghetti in the living room sounds kind of...you know what, fuck it. Let's be slobs."

"Slobs," he nods, then grins and hits me with a finger-gun. "Now you're speaking my language, sweetie. I'll go set up the movie.”


	8. Chapter 8

The next two days are more of the same, with several exceptions. We’ve fallen into a pattern, as dangerous as it is reassuring. I don’t want to be miserable here, but I can’t afford to get comfortable here. I’ve been in 1989 a week now, and while my homesickness comes and goes my internal clock is continuing to tick down. Now that the streets are clear, I could theoretically drive the Stanmobile into town, hunt down my own house, and find Horace. If he holds onto a note and gives it to my family in 2014 I don’t know what they’ll actually be able to _do_ to help me. But it’d be more proactive than just sitting here in the Shack waiting for the snow to melt so I can retrace my steps.

What if Horace gives them my note and they _can’t_ do anything? Stan will go crazy with frustration and worry. _He_ knows what will happen if I don’t get back in time for my next firefly pill, and he’ll rip time apart to get me home if he can find a way to do it. He won’t give two fucks about the consequences to the rest of the world, which is both heartwarming and distressing. I know my man. He’ll do anything to protect his family. But if there’s nothing he _can_ do, I don’t want to be responsible for him driving himself crazy. It’ll be better if I can just get back on my own, before anyone knows I’m gone.

That’s the only reason I haven’t taken any action yet. Absolutely the only reason. Nothing at all with not wanting to abandon 1989 Stan.

I mean…if I can get back on my own, 2014 Stan won’t even know I’ve been gone. And 1989 Stan has been alone in his own little hell of guilt and frustration for seven years. He could use a few weeks of having someone around to make him feel important and cared about. We’re developing a nice little rapport. I like him. I mean, I love him. Because he’s Stan. They’re _not_ two separate people, not really. But because of the way time works, or seems to work…I don’t know. If I didn’t already know him from the future, I would still like him right now. That’s the best explanation I can manage for myself.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s big and young and hairy and so masculine I just want to go down on my knees and worship him sometimes. But more importantly—I _like_ him.

Besides, that has nothing at all to do with why I’m not ready to hunt down Horace and force a note on him. I mean, that’s a cruel position to put Horace in, too. Making him keep a secret for all those years. The poor kid can barely handle keeping his brothers’ secrets from me for a few weeks. Hiding something from all of us for years? I don’t want to do that to him. No, I’ll give the snow a chance to melt.

Anyway, Stan and I continue to start the day by sharing a pot of super-strength coffee, followed by some form of breakfast. Since there’s now a chance of customers stopping by the shop, I am exiled to the non-commercial part of the Shack during the day. I use the time to read some of the books we’ve brought up from the basement, to do some light cleaning, and to bake cookies. When he comes back to join me in the house, we head down to the lab for a few hours. Since we now have less free time and I’m able to limp around a little better, I spend more of the time down there actively helping Stan and less of it sticking pushpins into the world map. This, for reasons I can’t put my finger on, is a relief. When we come back upstairs, I make something for dinner and we settle in to watch another movie from Stan’s collection. Despite us both being sober the past few nights, he’s continued to let me share his chair. We both try to pretend it’s not a big deal.

The third day after the snowplow starts off just fine, too. Having done a load of laundry the previous day, I am wearing clean underpants for the third day running. My hair is braided neatly back from my face, and I’m wearing one of Stan’s old shirts as a dress. It comes almost down to my knees, and I’ve even gone so far as to accent it with scarf cinched around my waist as a belt and a pair of men’s socks pulled up to my knees. It probably looks ridiculous, but I’m disproportionately pleased with it.

With Stan’s guidance, I manage to make a pot of coffee that could almost pass for one of his. At home, he’s always guarded his coffee secrets almost as carefully as his money, because he likes being the Caffeine God in the house. Young Stan either doesn’t realize it’s something he could theoretically hold over my head or doesn’t care, because he’s happy to stand right next to me and help me scoop the perfect amount of grounds into the filter. In fact, he even guides my hand. I suppose that level of instruction isn’t really necessary, but I’m not complaining about the results.

I’m not complaining about having his hand on mine, either. Or his tousled early morning hair. Or the split-second that his cheek brushes against mine as he leans over to grab the scoop. Or the fact that he hasn’t put a shirt on yet.

Oh. _This_ is what he meant by looking at him the way I look at coffee. I quickly turn my attention to the fridge instead.

We aren’t quite out of eggs and bacon yet, so I cook the last of them up for him for breakfast. He makes himself a piece of toast to go with them, and spreads peanut butter half an inch thick on it. Disgusting. I make a face at him as I hobble over to the table with my own breakfast.

“What?” he demands, scooping scrambled eggs on top of the bacon that’s on top of the peanut butter.

I shake my head and sink into my seat. What can I possibly say?

Stan seems to take my silence as evidence that there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with his creation. “You know, with all the cooking and cleaning and everything, you’re making it real hard for me to want to help you.”

I know exactly what he means by this, so I take it as another compliment instead of a threat. “Funny, that’s not how I see it.” I nurse my hot coffee.

“How you figure that?” He takes a large bite out of his…we’ll call it a sandwich. “If I help you get back home, I go back to eating canned meat for every meal.”

“Ugh.” My face contorts into something that’s both nausea and sympathy. “I will _never_ understand the appeal of that stuff. There are other options, you know!”

“It’s cheap and delicious!” He’s still chewing. There’s tiny bit of egg stuck to the corner of his mouth that I desperately want to brush off for him. I tear my eyes away from his face, but now I’m just staring at his bare chest. His hair is so thick and dark, and the scar on his forearm stands out against his skin in the cold sunlight coming through the window.

I tear my eyes back _to_ his face. No one in the process of chewing a peanut butter, bacon, and egg sandwich has any right to be this sexy. It absolutely should in no way make me want to remove the rest of his clothing. Which is just the pair of boxers he slept in last night and would be _so_ easy to remove and oh fuck he’s talking to me.

“Huh?” I clear my throat, feel my cheeks heat up, and become very visibly interested in my cup of coffee.

The knowing look in his eyes and upward quirk of his lips tell me all I need to know. He’s got my number, damn it. I bring my coffee mug back to my face. “I said,” he repeats, “that my mom used to make it for us when we were kids.”

“What does?” I ask blankly from behind my mug.

This time he barely represses his laughter. “Meat. In a can. The stuff you were just looking down your nose at. Jeez, Teegs, where’s your mind at?”

My mind is somewhere south of his waistband, and he clearly knows it. _I want you to fuck me, Stan,_ I absolutely don’t say out loud. _I want you so badly I can taste it. I want to taste_ you _. I want you to rip my clothes off and fuck me right here on the kitchen floor._

“Just tired, I guess,” I say blandly, and fan an imaginary yawn.

“Didn’t sleep well?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. Beneath the table, his foot loops under my calf, lifting my foot up until he can grab it with his hands. He sets my foot down in his lap. “Is this still keeping you awake? You gotta keep it elevated, Teegs.” He clucks his tongue in mock disappointment, tsk tsk tsk. Does he know that makes me imagine other things his tongue could do? Does he know that every time he calls me Teegs, the sound of the nickname is like a verbal caress? Does he kn—oh he _knows_ what he’s doing to my foot, I’m not second guessing that one.

“My foot’s fine,” I say defiantly, and use all my willpower to pull it back out of his lap. “I mean, not _fine_. But no, it’s not keeping me up anymore.” I take another hurried sip of coffee.

“So what _does_ keep you up at night?” he probes with a shrewd look.

I open my mouth to answer and snap it shut again. There is no safe answer to that question. “Alright, fine, you got me,” I say with narrowed eyes. “It _is_ my foot. It hurts way more than I let on.”

“That’s too bad. You should keep it elevated.” He makes to scoop my foot up with his own again, but this time I dodge. Stan laughs aloud, but leaves it alone after that.

I marginally relax, at least enough to actually taste the next sip of coffee I take. “Anything special you want me dealing with while you’re playing Mr. Mystery today?”

He chews up some more sandwich while he thinks about that. “Keep reading.”

I groan loudly.

His brows pull down seriously. “I know, I’m a real hardass. But you’ll do it.”

I sigh, but also nod. At least he didn’t make any other comments pertaining to his ass. “Of course I’ll do it. But on a _completely_ unrelated note, have you ever thought about selling chocolate in the gift shop?”

I mean that I could really use some chocolate to make all the awful reading more tolerable. But he misses my humor completely on this one, seizing immediately on the idea. “No. You think people’d buy it?”

“Of course they would! They bring their kids, don’t they? And the kids will be all hungry after the tour. And what kid can’t resist candy, anyhow? You don’t even have to do anything special or make it look mysterious. You just buy some bulk candy bars and mark the price up a hundred percent.”

Stan’s face goes very still as he processes this idea. There’s something very alive in his eyes, though. Then suddenly, in a rush, he gets out of his seat, leans over mine, puts his hand under my chin to tip my face up, and kisses me.

The span of time when I’m frozen in surprise passes very, very quickly. My body responds almost immediately as I lean into the kiss. My whole posture changes, becoming loose and eager. I slide down my seat slightly, arching my back forward and turning at the waist so at least part of me is facing him. My hands come up automatically, pressing against the warm skin on his side and brushing through the hair on his chest and stomach. One of his hands is still cupping my face, but the other slides down my shoulder to caress my bare arm.

Things escalate quickly. It’s not one kiss, but multiple kisses, one on top of the next, full of intensity and tongue and urgency. His hand makes the natural jump from my arm to the outside of my breast. I turn further in my seat, spinning my legs around so that he’s standing between them. But he’s still on his feet, and I’m still sitting, and he’s too high up. I slide out of my chair, pulling my mouth off of his long enough to lie down on my back and tug him down on top of me.

Now he’s pressing between my legs, just two thin layers of underwear separating us. He’s so hard. I tip my hips upward and push back against him, a physical confirmation that I want this just as much as he does. Maybe more. His hands are all over my breasts now, and his mouth is all over mine, and it is agonizingly wonderful. Incredible. Amazing.

And it has to stop.

I don’t _want_ to stop, obviously. But enough of me is cognizant of what I’m doing to inform the rest of me that this is a mistake I can’t afford to make.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

“No, Stan. Stop.” I put a palm against his check and push gently but persistently away. It takes a second for him to realize I mean it, but he stops as soon as he does.

“I don’t get it,” he says, sounding more wounded and confused than angry as he sits back. “You’re interested, right? I’m not reading that wrong. You been looking at me more and more like coffee all week. So what’s the deal?”

I run a hand over my face, feeling guilty and frustrated. He’s right, on all fronts. But… “I’m worried about screwing up the timeline. And…” I make an unhappy, embarrassed face. “It feels a little bit like cheating.”

Stan’s eyes widen. “On _me_?” He starts to laugh. “You don’t wanna mess around because you don’t want to cheat on me. With me.” He laughs harder. “That’s it? Seriously?”

I scowl. I’ve been agonizing over this for days, and he thinks it’s _funny_?

He stops laughing, but maintains his cavalier attitude. “But that’s easy! I’ll just promise not to get mad about it. You know, in the future.”

At least he’s not hurt by my rejection anymore. “I don’t think it works like that,” I say regretfully.

“Course it works that way! By the time I get to be him, I’ll already have been me, so there’s nothing to get mad about. In _fact_ , maybe this all happened already, and he remembers it, and that’s why he hit on you in the first place!” He grins broadly. “Nothing like a sure thing.”

Oh no, he’s _right_. I’ve already changed our future, whether I sleep with him or not. If I make it home, it’ll be to a Stan who _remembers_ meeting me in 1989. For him, he’ll have known me from the minute the boys and I turn up in 2013—hell, he’ll have been _waiting_. Our first kiss, does that even happen the way I remember it happening? Are we even still together in this new future I’ve inadvertently created?

Or _has_ this all already happened? Has he known me all along? Is it some sort of fucked up loop? If he’s known me since he met me and never mentioned this, he’s essentially been lying to me our entire relationship. I think of our first meeting, our first kiss, our first fight, the first time we slept together, the day he officially moved in with me. All that time, he knew it was a foregone conclusion? He’s known all along that I was going to fall in love with him? What about before we got my firefly pills, when I thought I was going to die and he held my hand and helped me stay calm? He knew I was going to make it, and he didn’t say anything? My whole world is turned upside-down by the idea. I don’t want to believe this.

I put my head in my hands. What a convoluted mess. And what a buzzkill! Despite Stan technically proving himself correct, the only thing getting fucked today is my mind.

I sigh. “I think I need some time to think,” I tell him. His shoulders sag, and he nods unhappily. No sex has ever come from the words _I need some time to think_.

I grab a boring book off the kitchen table and flee (slowly) into the tv room. He doesn’t try to stop me. Once I’m there I sink into Stan’s armchair, where the smell of him envelopes me. I put my face into my hands again, as if I could block out the world.

It can’t be true. It can’t. My entire life is not some foregone conclusion. My boyfriend has not been deceiving me since the day we met. Has he?

What’s the alternative? That the future I left, everything I remember, isn’t the way it happened anymore. Not for him, anyway. Maybe we’re still together, maybe we still live in our house on Turner Street with Horace, maybe he still told me he loved me for the first time in New Jersey last fall. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Even if all the big things are the same, what about all the little things that will now only exist in _my_ memory? Because I changed the future.

I don’t want to believe that, either. But one or the other of them must be true, because after all this there’s no way Stan wouldn’t recognize me in 2013.

I open the book, because even boring physics theory is better than the thoughts inside my head right now. I suppose I’m lucky that it’s mid-morning, and Stan will be opening up the Shack to customers soon. He’ll be preoccupied with that, and I can focus on learning more about science so that I can—well, fail to do anything useful at all with the knowledge. Because doing that would affect the future.

I want to scream.

Just focus on the book, Teagan.

I hide behind it when Stan comes through the room on his way to get dressed, and again when he comes back down the steps to head into the gift shop. I know it’s cowardly. But I don’t know how to explain my conflict to him, for one thing. I suppose he deserves some sort of explanation, because we were so _close_ to the point of no return earlier. I’m embarrassed to face him now that he knows just how badly I want him. Yes, he’s the one who kissed me, but the way I responded…hell, the way I’ve been acting all week! It’s embarrassing.

Why’s it embarrassing, Teagan? Because he knows someone finds him attractive? Irresistible? Because he knows someone genuinely likes him? Cares? The only thing I have any right being embarrassed about is the way I ran away.

Always running away from my feelings. Stan called me out on that years ago—years from now—just a little while before I asked him to kiss me. Our chemistry was painfully obvious then, too, but my brain kept throwing up excuses not to act on it. Strong feelings are scary for me, I guess.

Oh, fuck. That memory feels tainted suddenly. Did he already know that I was going to fall in love with him? Is that why he was so patient with all my nerves that day? So forthcoming about his own checkered past? Looking at it from this angle, the whole thing seems extremely, unpleasantly plausible. He said it himself just now. “Nothing like a sure thing.”

Ugh, why couldn’t I have fallen in love with Ford instead? He’d have the perfect explanation for the causality of time travel. He’d know exactly what to do and what not to do, and he’d be happy to explain it to me right from the get-go in careful, measured tones. And if I went back in time, he wouldn’t even be in this dimension, so there would be no sexual tension and nothing to be confused about. It’d be so simple, so clean, so…

Even in the depths of self-pity, I can’t take the idea seriously. I could _never_ be in the love with Ford. He’s a good man, yes. He’s grown on me as a person. He’s saved my life. But any attempt to imagine myself attracted to him is laughable.

The idea cheers me up, though. It reminds me that for better or for worse, I _do_ love Stan. Even if I’ve messed things up. Even if he’s lied to me. Even if I’ve just made a complete fool out of myself in front of him. I love Stan Pines, and nothing’s going to change that.

It's a reassuring thought, and after having it I’m able to focus on studying for a long chunk of time.

When my attention span fails me on that front, I go upstairs and crawl around scrubbing the bathroom until my knees ache. Then, stubborn creature that I am, I wash the baseboards. I miss my phone. It’d be nice to be able to play some music while I do this, or just sit there and look through my pictures. But it’s buried in the snow somewhere around the Shack, and if I ever see it again there will be no way to charge it and see if it still works. This is a loss I have generally come to terms with, but today on top of everything else it’s more than I can handle.

Back to reading before I make myself any more miserable.

I briefly entertain the idea of just leaving while Stan’s watching for tourists. I could steal his keys, drive the Diablo into town, steal myself a coat and pair of boots, hunt down Horace and give him that note I wrote to Stan a week ago. I’d have to play it by ear from there, but I could probably find some way to survive.

But Stan will never forgive me if I cut and run. That’s the sort of behavior that will _definitely_ poison our relationship in the future. And if I’m really honest, I’d never forgive myself for doing it, either.

I switch over to a book on cryptograms and cyphers, instead. I try creating some basic codes and writing phrases out in them in the margins. I’m feeling somewhat pleased with my accomplishments by evening. I might still be chasing my thoughts in circles, but at least I’ve learned something!

Something changes in the air, and I look up from my book. Stan’s in the doorway, watching me warily. The bottom immediately drops out of my stomach, but I try to smile. “Quitting time?”

“No one’s out there, and it’ll be dark soon.” He remains in the doorway. My smile is clearly not convincing.

“Too bad you don’t have any ghosts,” I say, trying desperately to keep the atmosphere light. “You could have a nighttime tour once a month and make bank on it.” Immediately, I clamp my mouth shut. When he kissed me this morning, it was right after I suggested something potentially profitable. And here I am doing the exact same thing the second he comes back in.

Luckily, he seizes on the idea in a different way. “Who says I need real ghosts?” he asks, with the air of having just discovered electricity. “Just about everything else in here’s fake, and they eat it up. All I need is a smoke machine and maybe a couple sheets and wires…” Even from a distance, I can see the faraway look in his eyes. “Be right back,” he mutters.

Well, that bought me some more time. And maybe a bit of his goodwill back. I have no idea how _he’s_ feeling about the mess this morning. Though I suppose it’s not going out on a limb to assume the answer isn’t “fantastic.” I mentally self-flagellate for another minute and then go back to studying secret codes.

Stan returns looking almost cheerful. “I need your help,” he informs me without preamble.

“Sure.” I set the book and shift in the chair, lowering my feet to the floor. Oof. My back complains loudly that I’ve been sitting too long. My knees are still raw from all the cleaning earlier, too. I’m getting old, dammit. “Hey, there’s leftover chicken,” I say as I follow him out of the room. “You want me to make some more potatoes to go with it, or you want to make sandwiches?”

“Sandwiches are fine,” he answers, but he still sounds distracted. We get into the show room, and he shoves a white cloth into my arms. “Stand right there.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, guiding me into the right spot, but there’s nothing romantic about it. He takes a few steps back and shakes his head. “Nah, that does work. Um.” He thinks. “Go back to that corner.” I comply. “Yeah. Hold it up higher.” He paces back to the doorway, scratching the back of his head thoughtfully. “Back up some more.”

I literally have two walls against my back. “I can’t.”

“Huh.” He seems disappointed. “Still looks like a sheet.”

“You need gauzier fabric.”

“Huh?”

“The sheet’s too bright and solid,” I explain. It’s just occurred to me, but I know instinctively that I’m right. “You need some of that…ugh, what’s it called. Not lace. I can’t think of it! Almost like netting. You know what I mean?”

He nods slowly. “Uh-huh.”

“It’d look all wispy. And catch just enough of the light.” I look up at my own hands and sigh. “And you could try not having the human flashlight holding it for you. Don’t you want it to come out of a _dark_ corner?”

“I’m using my imagination. You got a better idea?”

“Yes,” I answer at once. “You got a camera?”

From the look on his face, you’d think I just asked something really strange. “No.”

“Oh.” I deflate slightly. “You should pick one up next time you’re in town. Just a cheap disposable one.” I move out of the corner. “Anyway, your other option is to trust my opinion.” I press the cloth into his hand and jerk my head toward the corner. “I will be the objective, brainless customer. Go be a ghost.”

I wonder briefly how Horace would react if he could see us right now. Even only partially manifested, he looks absolutely _nothing_ like a gauzy white cloth stuck in a dark corner.

I limp back to where Stan was standing, and look toward the corner as though I’m just walking in. That white cloth is definitely too bright and solid, even without me holding it. But with enough gauze…

“Gauze!” I exclaim. “That’s the word! You could get some at the pharmacy, if you don’t already have it stashed away in the bathroom somewhere. “Gauze. Just drape it over some wires into a roughly human shape—”

“Teegs, you’re a genius,” he tells me, and dashes off upstairs.

“If you don’t have it,” I call after him, moving more slowly in the same direction, “just pick some up tomorrow. Along with a camera.”

He doesn’t answer, so I follow him up the stairs. I don’t need to go up and down on my butt anymore, as long as I lean hard into the railing. I can hear him rummaging in the bathroom cupboards long before I get to the top. “Stan? Did you find any?”

“Not yet.” He doesn’t comment on the fact that the bathroom is markedly cleaner than it was when he left it this morning. But did I really expect him to?

“Well if you don’t find any,” I repeat, limping into the bathroom, “just grab some at the drugstore tomorrow. You can get a cheap camera there, too…though actually if we build a wire frame, you won’t need to be holding it, will you. You can just step back and look for yourself. Nix the camera.” His head and shoulders come out from behind the largest cupboard drawer. “Sorry I glow in the dark. Kinda screws the whole thing up.”

“Are you kidding?” he says, eyes alight. “You’d make the perfect ghost! When I was looking at you instead of the sheet, it was unreal. You sure I can’t get you to stay here?” He winks at me.

It’s such a relief to see that stupid wink. It means he’s decided not to hold a grudge. At least for the moment, things are cool between us. “Afraid not.” I spread my hands wide.

“Ah well.” He closes the cupboard door. “Too bad I can’t just bottle some of you up. Your blood doesn’t glow, does it?”

I blanche ever so slightly. “I’ve never checked, honestly. Probably not?”

“Damn.” His shoulders slump as he hits the bathroom lights and passes me on his way back to the steps. “It was a good idea, anyway.”

I must still be feeling guilty, because I say “We can find out, if you’d like.”

Stan stares at me. “You’re serious.”

I shrug awkwardly. “Why not? I mean…just a _little_ , right? To find out?”

He grins broadly. “You think I’m gonna bleed you dry?”

A slow, silly smile spreads over my face. “I dunno. If there was profit in it, maybe.”

He snorts in the back of his throat. “Bullshit.” He starts back down the stairs. “Where would I hide the body?”

“Ha ha,” I remark blandly. I lean on the railing again and follow him. I wish he’d offer to carry me again, but I’m certainly not going to ask.

Back in the kitchen, I poke through the drawers until I find a small glass jar with a lid. I get out the remaining whisky and the best kitchen knife.

“You’re crazy,” Stan tells me with admiration.

I douse the blade in alcohol and stare at the empty jar. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He’s standing near me again, and I look up at him adoringly. Why do I do so many stupid things for this man? “It’s not just for you, you know,” I feel compelled to state. “Now that you’ve brought it up, I’m curious. I want to _know_ if my blood glows!”

And if it does, I silently wonder, my mind going a mile a minute, does that mean there’s enough active firefly juice in it to substitute for a pill? Could I theoretically freeze some of it, and take it if I’m still here in a month? Not that the idea of drinking my own blood appeals, but the idea of surviving here until the snow melts certainly does. It’s unlikely—I know it’s unlikely—but now that my hopes have seized on this idea I can’t let it go.

I’m still standing by the kitchen counter holding the knife. I press the tip of it into the tip of my thumb until it hurts, but absolutely no blood wells up. I try pulling the side of the blade along the outside of my wrist instead. It scratches, but barely bleeds. My own fear of cutting too deep is holding me back from doing the job properly.

With a sigh of exasperation, I hobble to the table, sit down, and stick my bad leg onto the opposite chair. “You do it.”

Stan’s eyebrows pull down. He looks adorable. “Seriously?”

I nod. “I can’t do it myself. I lack conviction.”

“This is stupid.” He comes over and takes the knife from me, but he looks uneasy.

“Maybe. But seriously, I need to know now.” I reach out, briefly resting my hand on the back of his wrist. “I trust you.”

I can tell he’s touched by this. He might be a quarter century younger, but I know that expression. I both hate it and love it, because he always seems so _surprised_ when someone lets him know they care. I almost wish I could go back in time—further back, I guess—and change things so that he never experienced the kind of rejection to make him this way. But I can’t, so at least I can let him know _now_.

In that moment, just for the span of a few seconds, everything is crystal clear to me. This _is_ my Stan. Time doesn’t matter. I love him now, I love him then, nothing else matters. The very nature of time is transient, but what’s inside doesn’t change, not really. I look up at him, standing over me holding a knife, with his brows pulled down in pleased confusion, and I feel nothing but an outpouring of love.

“Where should I do it?” he asks nervously, and the moment of clarity shatters.

I lean over my knee, unwrapping my ankle. I tape a spot on my lower calf, just above where the swelling stops. “Right here. We can just slap a band-aid on it and cover the whole thing up afterward.”

Gingerly, he picks my foot up, cupping my heel in his left hand and holding the knife in his right. His eyes flicker up to my face. “You sure about this?”

“Sure as death and taxes,” I smile.

“You think taxes are a sure thing?” I see a quick flash of teeth as he grins. “That’s cute.” While I’m still entertained by that comment, he presses the knife to my calf and pulls quickly down.

The pain is more a surprise than anything. My leg jerks in response, but he’s already done. I look down at my calf, impressed by the bright red blood welling up. There’s not a noticeable part in the flesh, and I can’t see any tissue, so I assume it’s not deep enough to be serious. “Nice job,” I say in admiration.

“You’re crazy,” he reiterates, shaking his head as he grabs the jar off the counter. But his tone is affectionate.

I lean over my leg with interest. Blood has never bothered me, and seeing my own holds a kind of sick fascination. I hold the glass against my skin and push gently at the cut. Blood drips readily into the vessel. “Remember when I cut hit my knee on the side of the boat?” I ask absently, caught up in the sight of the blood slowly collecting in the bottom of the jar. I laugh to myself at the memory. “I kept insisting I was totally fine, and you were so _sweet_. You—”

I stop talking. I look up at Stan. He’s watching me with a strange, puzzled look on his face. “What’d I do?”

Oh, fuck it. “You gave me your shirt,” I tell him, smiling fondly. “We tied it around my leg, and we sat down on a blanket under the trees.” It’s a nice memory. I meet the eyes of the man who gave it to me.

“Huh,” he says reflectively. He puts a hand back on my calf, near the cut and near my own fingers. “Sounds nice.”

“It was.” I press on my skin, persuading more blood to come out. It’s still trickling, but there’s barely enough to cover the bottom of the jar. I suppose I should view that as a good thing, but it feels like I need more. “I’m sorry about this morning.” It’s easier to say when I’m looking at my ankle instead of his face.

“Heh.” He chuckles dryly. “Me too.”

I squeeze some out more blood. “You made a good point. I’d just never thought about it like that, and it was…unsettling.”

“Figured it was something like that,” he says heavily. Then he continues with false heartiness, “Hey, at least I know I get there in the end though, right?”

I smile tightly. “I thought we were pretending I _don’t_ know you in the future.”

“You’re the one who started talking about it,” he points out mildly. “Don’t you think that’s enough blood?”

“I guess.” There’s at least enough to cover the bottom of the jar now, and I’m getting diminishing returns from squeezing my leg. “Got the band-aid?” He produces it from his pocket. I quickly peel the wrapper apart and slap onto my skin. Then I pick up the ace bandage and pass it to him shyly. “Would you do the honors?”

“I, uh…sure.” He sits down in the chair, my foot in his lap, and wraps it up again securely. I try hard not to think about how much I like just having him touch me. Anywhere. When he’s done, the bandage supports my ankle and still goes up far enough to add a bit of extra pressure on top of the band-aid. “There you go.”

I nod, setting both my feet back on the floor. “Thanks. Wanna see if it works?”

He picks up the jar and screws the lid back onto it. “You bet.”

I’ve overdone it today, I can tell as soon as I stand up. Even securely wrapped, my ankle doesn’t want to hold any weight, and I ache all over. “Ugh,” I mumble, my limp pronounced as I follow Stan to the doorway. The glass jar is sitting on the kitchen table, and so I keep moving until I’m a few paces out of the room. I don’t want my glow anywhere near the blood. “Good _thing_ I’m not making a hot dinner tonight.”

“What’s that?” Stan asks over his shoulder. He’s still back by the doorway, ready to flick the light switch.

“Nothing.”

He flips the switch. The kitchen remains dark. Not a glimmer from where I know the table is. “Damn it,” I whisper bitterly.

The light comes back on. Stan, too, looks downcast. “Guess you did all that for nothing,” he says apologetically.

“Eh.” I limp back over to the fridge and pull out the container of leftover chicken. “It was fun.”

He laughs—the first genuine, hearty laugh I’ve heard today. “What’re you doing with the chicken? We still gotta go downstairs, remember?”

I groan. “Oh man! How could I _forget_?”

Stan grins. “You were having fun.”

“Fuuuuuck,” I complain, shoving the chicken back into the fridge. “I’m _beat_.”

“Well you’re not getting out of it,” he says ruthlessly, and scoops me up into his arms.

*

The remainder of the night is as close to normal as I can hope for. This is not to say there aren’t awkward moments. I’m still profoundly bothered by the idea that all this has in some way already happened, and my whole relationship is a sham. Every time I think about it too hard, I can feel melancholy sneaking up on me.

And the sexual tension is still very definitely hanging between us. Things would be simpler if the escapade this morning had killed it, but instead it only seems to have gotten stronger. It’s positively crackling. Now that I’ve been reminded how his hands feel on me, I need to have that again. As much as possible. It pops into my head just as much as the confusing thoughts do; I’m sure I’m looking at him like he’s a cup of really good coffee. And he keeps looking at me like I’m a family-size bag of toffee peanuts.

But despite those things, we make it through the laboratory routine with minimal awkwardness. Since I’ve already spent all day studying, I content myself with following Stan around as he takes his usual notes. I search for any sort of symbol or clue on the equipment that might have been previously overlooked. What does _this_ one mean? What does _that_ one mean? I don’t intend it to segue into story hour, but when I come to the symbol at the very end, by our desk area, he volunteers the story about Ford pushing him into it. Through great valiance and personal resolve, I manage to offer sympathy and a listening ear without throwing myself at him.

After doing the bare minimum of work down there, we head back upstairs for dinner. I’m completely spent by the time I’ve assembled sandwiches, which now I think about it Stan could really have done just as easily. I recline on the blankets next to the chair in the tv room, only half focusing on the action movie as I chew my food.

When my plate is empty, I look up at Stan uncertainly. “Can I still sit with you?”

“You still want to?” he responds, looking hopeful.

I nod and climb into his lap.

Halfway through the movie, I realize I’m dozing off there. I attempt to rouse myself, and succeed for a few more minutes.

Then I’m awake again, cool blankets under me instead of a nice warm body. A blanket settles on top of me, and when I open my face I can see Stan’s face illuminated by yellow-green light. I roll over sleepily, extending a hand in protest at him leaving me, but he retreats out of my light. I listen to his footsteps as he leaves the room.

And just like that, I’m wide awake again. Usually I would just roll over and fall back asleep, but it’s like someone has flicked the _awake_ switch in my mind. I lie there staring at the spot where the light fades into blackness, a yard or so shy of the ceiling. I close my eyes and try to chase down my sleepiness, but it’s gone. I feel very isolated.

As I do every time I’ve been unable to sleep here, I mentally bid goodnight to each of my family members back home. In my imagination, I peek into the Mabel’s room. _Night, Mabel._ She gets up from her bed to hug me goodnight, of course. I smile and ascend the second set of stairs. Since the twins are getting older, Dave’s been forced to share his room with Dipper this summer. _Dave, are you going to text all night? Dipper, put the book down sometime soon. It’s past eleven_. I cross the hall to their insincere promises and complaints fresh in my ears. Nicky’s already asleep, so I smooth his hair back and kiss him on the forehead—the only time he’ll let me kiss him, these days. _Night, Horace. Love you_ , I tell the apparently empty bed on the other side of the room. He becomes partially visible, lying on his stomach with a book, so that I can see his answering smile. I go back down the stairs and crawl into my own bed next to Stan. He’s already half asleep, but he turns toward my glow when I slide under the covers. _Night, honey._ I drape an arm over him, bringing my head to rest on his shoulder.

It's a great little homesick fantasy. Usually it works. Tonight I try it several times, concocting as many details as possible, but it only serves to make me more awake.

My mind drifts back to Stan. I guess I’d rather he’s been lying to me for the past thirteen months. I just can’t stand the idea that I’ve broken the history we have. I didn’t ask to come to the past. And I’ve tried so hard not to screw up the future, not to give away too much. But once the cat was out of the bag about me being from future, keeping all those little secrets just became impossible. It’s like a landslide, one little pebble after another until everything familiar is gone.

At last, it hits me: something that should have been obvious from the get-go. Of _course_ Stan’s been lying about knowing me all this time. He _couldn’t_ tell me. Our entire relationship, he’s been in the same place I’m in now! Not able to talk about what he knows because he doesn’t want to screw up his future.

Of course he lied. If he’d greeted me with “Hey Teegs, nice to see you again, let’s get busy” the day we’d met, I would have run for the hills. Even if he’d been able to convince me, our relationship would never have progressed the way it did—and I wouldn’t have all those early, awkward, romantic, ridiculous memories that I wouldn’t trade for anything. My coming back to 1989 wouldn’t be what screwed it all up. Him _telling_ me that I’d come back to 1989 would be. My poor Stan!

I bet it’ll be such a _relief_ to him, when I come back and say that it’s happened, I’ve been to the past, it’s over. We can stop dodging the past/future and just live in the present.

I stare into the darkness for another minute, turning the thought over and over in my head, examining it. It _is_ the most logical explanation. This has always happened. And the moment of clarity from earlier comes back to me: time doesn’t really matter. People are what matters.

I throw the covers off and get up.

I don’t have to worry about tripping over anything on my way upstairs, but several of the steps creak. I wonder if he’s been lying there awake like me, or if the sound woke him, or if he’s still sound asleep. I tiptoe to his bedroom door and find it open. Since this is the first time I’ve come up here at night, I don’t know if he always leaves it open or if this is something significant.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t hesitate, limping softly through the open door and into his room. There are no lights on except mine, and the distant bright specks of stars outside the window. I get close enough to see his bed. He’s lying on his back, head turned toward me, eyes wide open. “Hi,” I whisper. There’s a slice of mattress available next to him. I claim it for myself, slipping under the covers and lying on my side.

Stan doesn’t object. He _does_ turn toward me, rolling onto his side as well so that we’re facing each other. “What’re you doing?” he asks, pitching his voice low.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” I murmur, daring to reach out and put my palm against his scratchy cheek.

“You said that already,” he reminds me. He shifts, and now I can feel the heat and weight of his hand resting on my waist.

I smile slightly. “I know. And I _did_ need time to think.”

“And now you have?”

I nod, sliding closer so that his hand falls behind my back and our chests are nearly touching. I take a deep breath and take the plunge. “I love you now. I love you then. I love you at 63 or 38 or any number in between. You’re right, it doesn’t matter. Our timeline can be fucked up. _Everything_ here is fucked up. I just want to be with the man I love.”

“Love?” he repeats doubtfully.

“You heard me.” I brush the backs of my fingers along the line of his jaw, letting the love shine clearly on my face. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to say it back. You’ve only known me a week, after all.”

“Eight days,” he says, and pulls me up against him. I tip my chin up eagerly and our mouths find each other. Absolute happiness spreads through me. I shift around, pressing my body closer to his, running my hands over his arms and along his face and into his hair. He holds me tight at first, but as the kiss progresses his hands venture up and down the curve of my hip. I can feel him hardening as he grabs my butt and pulls me right up against it. I moan faintly, rocking my hips back and forth in answer. I loop my thigh over his and hook my foot behind his calf, twining us together. His hands find my breasts for the second time today, gently squeezing and rubbing and exploring.

My mouth slips from his, and I move my lips in a line over to his ear. Very lightly, I nip at the lobe several times. I get what feels like a positive response, so I go on to do the same thing to the sensitive spot on his neck just beneath the ear. _Definite_ positive response. I kiss my way down his neck, breathing getting quicker as I come to his shoulders. A thick layer of curls tickles my face as I brush my lips along his skin. I wiggle back enough to move my mouth down over his chest. There’s a faint but pleasant smell of sweat and hormones that’s absolutely intoxicating. I rub my face in his body hair, letting short, breathy moans roll over the back of my throat.

His fingers grasp the hem of my t-shirt, tugging it up. I sit up to help him, tossing it onto the floor. I usually remove my bra before bed, but due to passing out during the movie I never got around to it. I remedy that now. The look on his face when he sees me topless for the first time is almost as wonderful as the things he does immediately after.

This time I do not tell him to stop. I _do_ say the word “yes” loud and clear at several points. Having him on top of me, inside me, moving with me—in this moment, it is everything I could ever want. The level of pleasure is intense, quickly overtaking my tender, happy feelings and drowning all coherent thought in ecstasy. Everything he does makes me crazy with desire, from the way his fingers dig into my hips to the way his chin scratches my nipples as he kisses my breasts. I never want it to end.

We finish, panting and bucking, and I lift my head to kiss him again while he’s still inside me. It’s meant to be a thank-you. Instead it deepens, radiating passion and excitement into all parts of my body. We begin moving with each other again, slow becoming fast, fast becoming almost frantic. This two-for-one experience is totally unprecedented—an unexpected bonus. I take advantage of it by forcing myself to slow the pace back down, kissing him on the mouth and letting my fingers trail over his back as my hips rise and fall almost lazily.

My eyes have been closed, allowing the other senses to run the show, but I open them when Stan’s fingers stroke my cheek. His eyes are only inches above mine, bright and earnest and intense. His mouth is open slightly and his hair is disheveled. I’m completely stunned by how handsome he is and how lucky I am.

It's funny—despite the newness of it for him, the fact that this is round two, and the superficial physical differences, I could easily close my eyes again and know with utter certainty that it’s Stan I’m making love to. I’ve spent the last year of my life developing a rhythm and familiarity with him, and I know his shape and his style very well. It really doesn’t matter that this is the first time I’ve slept with him in 1989. He’s undeniably Stan, and that is all that matters.

After we’ve both lurched into a sweaty, explosive, fantastically satisfying climax, I wrap my arms around his back and hold him close to me. “Stay,” I whisper when he moves to roll to the side. He does, relaxing on top of me and resting his head just above my shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Dunno what you’re thanking _me_ for,” he mumbled into my neck.

I squeeze my arms tighter around him in an extra show of affection and rub the tip of my nose against his chin. “That was amazing.”

He nods. “I… _yeah_.” He goes silent for a moment, and I enjoy the feeling of his breath on my neck. “Now I know how it feels to be coffee.”

“No you don’t,” I answer, letting him hear the seductive promise in my tone. “I haven’t drank any of you—yet.”

“Whoa.” I love feeling the shake of laughter all over his body. “If you’re that eager, we don’t have to wait for morning.”

“Sure we do.” I nuzzle him again. “You need time and rest to recharge. I mean—” I grip his shoulders, lifting myself up enough to whisper right into his ear. “—I need a _lot_ of coffee if I’m going to start my day right.”

“Yeah, cause at this rate you’re not gonna get any sleep.” He cranes his neck around, planting his mouth on mine and sweeping me up into another irresistible kiss.

“I’m okay with that.” I squirm with fresh desire. “This is way more important than sleep.” I kiss him some more. “But at some point tonight, I really hope I get to fall asleep beside you.”

“At some point,” he agrees.


	9. Chapter 9

The following days are pure hedonism. We do it six ways from Sunday, every position under the sun, every room in the house. It’s magnificent. I never in my wildest dreams envisioned myself up against the wall of the Shack’s show room, completely naked, two feet away from a giant taxidermied albino gorilla, my feet barely touching the floor, clinging to Stan’s shoulders as he angles my hips forward and hits a spot deep inside of me.

And that’s saying something, because we were fairly creative about what we tried in 2013.

I slide down onto the floor, still shuddering from the intensity of my orgasm, and stretch out on my back attempting to catch my breath. Stan leans against the wall instead, and I look up and admire the view. “You know you’re magnificent, right?”

He grins down at me. “Course I do.” His eyes sweep over my stretched-out form, appraising and approving. “Could say the same about you.”

Unlike his, my smile is tight and shy. “Nah.”

He lifts one eyebrow. “You look in the mirror lately?”

“Not naked, no.”

“That’s too bad.”

This time, I do grin. “You’re sweet.”

Stan chuckles. “That’s not one I hear a lot.”

I roll over and kiss him on the leg, since it’s the only part of him I can reach. “How have you not given me an official tour yet?”

“Cause you couldn’t walk,” he reminds me, sitting down and walking his fingers slowly up my bandaged foot all the way to my slick inner thighs. I hold my breath, but he stops there. “Plus I figured you’d seen it all before.”

“First,” I say, reaching down to wind my fingers into his, “I haven’t. This place _changes_ over the next twenty years. I promise you I have never toured _this_ version of the Mystery Shack.” I glance over at the gorilla looming over us. “What is that even supposed to be?”

“Abominable Snow Monkey.”

I snort. It turns into a giggle, and then a full-throated laugh. “Come _on_! That’s not even clever!”

“Yeah, but you’re laughing.” He dips our joined hands, tickling me behind my knee. I shriek and squirm away, giggling more. “You got a nice laugh.”

I sigh happily, squeezing his hand and gazing at him lovingly. He returns it for a second, then resumes tickling my knee. He switches to tickling my sides, until we’re both rolling around laughing. Naturally this progresses into groping and kissing, but halfway through a hickey I recall that I was trying to say something. “Oh! Hold on.” I kiss him again, so he understands I don’t actually want to _stop_. Unfortunately, it’s another minute before I can convince myself to break the kiss.

“My second point,” I remind him, pausing to kiss the tip of his chin and then the front of his throat. “Even if I’d been through the Shack dozens of times.” I kiss the center of his chest. Oh man, I cannot get enough of that. I do it again, slowly and seductively. What was I talking about? Getting a tour, right. “I’d still be crazy to pass up the chance.” Another kiss, over his heart. “To get a private tour.” Another one, up by his neck. “From Mr. Mystery himself.”

“Sure there’s nothing else you’d rather be doing?” He repositions my hips and slides back into me, smooth as a criminal from a Michael Jackson song.

My breath catches in my throat. I push up into a sitting position on top of him, adjusting so he can push in even deeper. Time for round two, apparently. There have been quite a few Round Twos recently. Usually there’s a break before Round Three or Four—they tend to happen after dinner, rather than before. “You’re going to wear me out,” I don’t-quite-complain as his rough hands progress from my waist up to my chest.

He pulls partially out, slowly, and cocks an eyebrow at me in a display of doubt at this statement. “You want me to stop?”

“Absolutely not.” I roll my hips and lean over him again, skimming my breasts over his broad chest. I gasp a second time as he covers them with his hands in an incredibly sexy massage. “I haven’t had this much sex in _years_.”

He keeps going, but slowly. “What the hell’s wrong with future me? He oughta be plowing you round the clock!”

My laugh turns into a guttural moan halfway through, but it is still a laugh. I answer him when I have the capacity. “Nothing’s wrong with him! You. It’s just that, you know, in the future we’re responsible adults!”

“What, you saying I’m not responsible right now?” he asks while making love to me on the dusty floor of his tourist trap.

“Not at this exact moment, no.” Briefly, my mind touches on the dust in his hair, and I think about getting him in the tub later to wash it all off. And then just see him wet. I want to see water droplets clinging to those beautiful dark curls on his chest and shoulders. I want him to know how his hands feel against my skin under water. And right now—

Right now I don’t want to be anywhere else but _right here_. I want to prolong this exact moment for as long as humanly possible. Wait, no, this moment is better. This one right here, this moment forever. I would like to keep—holy shit he’s sucking on my skin, he’s giving me a hickey on my shoulder while he’s touching my breasts and sliding in and out and this is the _best_ moment—

“ _Stan_ ,” I cry out, urgency and ecstasy mingling in my voice as it rises in pitch and volume. “Stan, Stan, Stan, _Stan_!” The sound I make after that is wordless, but I’m fairly sure he understands its meaning nonetheless.

The moment passes, as all moments inevitably do, but at least it ends with a bang. I let myself linger in it a little longer, but presently I sit up and slide off him. I kneel there, looking around, trying to remember where the heck we were this time when clothes started coming off. They’re certainly not in _here_.

Oh, right. The gift shop. Because I’d been listening from the stairway, just waiting for him to lock the door behind the last customer of the day, and the second I heard it close I’d peeked my head through. And when I’d established that he was indeed alone, I’d come to kiss him. And after kissing turned into petting, I’d pulled the shirt off over my head and left it…

“The register!” I say aloud.

Stan opens his eyes and props himself up on his elbows. “Huh?”

“My shirt.” I peck him on the cheek before pushing myself carefully up to my feet. “I tossed it onto the register.” My bra, I think, is on the floor of the gift shop. And my panties are…yep, over there by the doorway, along with Stan’s pants and boxers. His shirt and fez got left back in the gift shop, too.

“You in a hurry to get it back on?” he asks languidly, following me with his eyes as I limp over to my underwear.

“Yes and no.” I waggle my hand, pick up my first article of clothing, and realize I don’t really want to put it on without drying off a bit first. Sex is messy; good sex is _really_ messy. If I step into my panties right now they’ll wind up slimy and damp. I sigh and drop them. “Why don’t you keep any tissue in here?”

“I’ve _never_ needed it,” he responds, which I guess is fair. “Why yes and no?”

“Well, much as I love being naked with you, I’m getting hungry,” I inform him. “And I don’t want to cook in the nude. And besides, do you really want me naked down in the lab?”

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Stan says, which of course makes me laugh.

I attempt to limp out of the room while keeping my thighs tight together. The two movements do not work well together, and I can hear Stan stifle a laugh behind me.

I make it to the bathroom, clean myself up, and sit on the toilet lid while pulling my panties back on. Between the ace bandage and the passage of a week, my ankle is doing much better than when I arrived—but it’s still a long way from healed. I don’t want to do something stupid like falling over while attempting to get dressed.

I hear movement from the show room while I’m hooking my bra back into place, and Stan appears in the entrance way, tugging his pants back up, while I’m straightening my shirt. I can already tell he’s planning on leaving his shirt off again; it didn’t take him long to catch onto the fact that I find him irresistible like this.

However, I _am_ hungry. And routine dictates that we need to check out everything in the lab before I can begin cooking. “Shall we?” I ask, heading toward the vending machine that conceals the door to the basement.

“Oooh, fancy talk.” Without having to ask, he scoops me up into his arms. “You been doing your homework?”

Homework. Ha. “I spent half my day reading boring-ass books, if that’s what you mean.”

“Only half?” He punches in the secret code.

“Yes. I spent the rest of it working on building ghosts for you.”

He nods in satisfaction. “You learn anything?”

“Yeah. I learned, once again, that you must _really_ love your brother.”

Stan sighs as we get into the elevator. “You think I’m stupid? To keep doing it?”

“No!” I protest at once. “I think you’re a _hero_ to keep doing it. I’m not sure I could.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You could.”

I consider that. Yes, if it was one of my family members, I could. And would. And absolutely nothing would stop me. I nod slowly. “Yeah, I could. But I wish neither of us had to.” The doors to the laboratory open. “I guess I’m glad I could at least let you know that it’ll pay off eventually. I can’t imagine doing it for all this time without even knowing whether it’d work.”

“You sure you don’t wanna let me know how much longer I gotta keep it up?” He sets me onto my feet and walks over to grab his notebook from the desk.

I make a face. “You won’t like the answer.”

He blanches, looking briefly like a trapped animal. “That long, huh?”

“A while,” I agree cagily. I hate seeing him like this. I limp over and wrap my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest. “But it’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that.” He hugs me back but sounds doubtful. Abruptly, he lets me go. “Let’s get this over with. I’m hungry, too.”

I don’t push the issue. It’s something I guess he has to come to terms with on his own. I shouldn’t feel like it’s my fault.

Nothing has changed since yesterday down here. After some extensive note checking, Stan hits one button on a panel. It changes from glowing green to glowing orange. I have no idea what it means. I don’t think he does, either.

I go with him into the room with the portal, and crawl around diligently on one side checking for evidence of damage or dust while he takes the other side. Really, everything we can usefully do down here is finished at that point, but I know Stan doesn’t feel like he’s done enough unless he’s been down here at least an hour. I look through drawers that I know have already been completely searched while he stares at a journal page full of cyphers, jots things in his notebook, and then scribbles them out. We spend a few minutes adding push pins to the world map, despite my growing sense of unease. Maybe it’s just my stomach demanding I start on that lasagna.

Almost as soon as we’re back upstairs, Stan’s mood improves. He goes to check out the ghosts I’ve been working on constructing while I cook noodles and preheat the oven. When he comes back, we discuss what we’re going to eat when we run out of leftover lasagna. I make a list and try to persuade him to let _me_ go to the store this time. As much as I’m enjoying the crazy sex and cozy nights and good company, cabin fever is creeping up on me and I could desperately use some fresh air and scenery. He objects that he doesn’t like the idea of me limping around that crappy little grocery store by myself. That’s sweet, but I ask whether that’s really his concern, or if it’s just that he knows I’ll _pay_ for the groceries. He objects that he pays for “at least half the stuff” he gets in town.

“I mean let’s face it,” he says, propping his feet up beside my legs after I’ve put the food in the oven and pulled up a seat, “if I stole everything I ever need, even those morons would catch on eventually. If I’m staying here, I gotta keep a low profile.” I raise my eyebrows and he laughs. “Low _enough_. I’ll settle for them not chasing me out of town.”

“Well.” I smile and put _my_ feet up next to _him_. “I promise if you let me take the car into town, I will keep a super low profile.”

“You are _not_ taking the Stanmobile,” he retorts at once, and it’s my turn to laugh delightedly. I’ve fought this battle with him before. It took a while, but I won it. “I’ll drive you into town tomorrow if you want. We can close up shop for a little bit.”

“You’re sweet.” I blow him a kiss. “Maybe I can stop by a video store while I’m at it, so we don’t have to resort to public access tv.”

“We could just watch _Caddyshack_ again.” I shake my head and put my face in my hands. “What? You said you liked it!”

“I did,” I agree, uncovering my face, “but I think one showing a week is enough for me.”

“Hopeless,” he tells me, shaking his head in disappointment.

I smile, entertained but lacking a good response to that. To make up for it, I move his feet into my lap and slip my hand under the cuff of his pants. Just enough that I’m touching his skin. I stroke my fingers tenderly back and forth along his calf.

Glancing up from his leg, I see Stan looking at me with a strange, sappy expression. I recognize adoration when I see it, but there’s something more… Insecurity, perhaps? It must be; he catches me staring back at him and quickly looks away.

Then, of course, he stretches out, sliding further down the back of the chair and crossing his arms behind his head, going over the top in his attempt to look confident. A surge of affection rises up in me, and I give voice to it. Maybe I still regret waiting as long as I did to say it in 2013. Maybe it’s just that I can tell how much 1980s Stan needs to hear it. Does it really matter? “I love you.”

“Yeah,” he answers, trying to sound cocky, “but you haven’t said _why_ though, have you.”

“Why I love you?” I blink. “Because you’re _you_.” He needs more. Okay. “Because you’re creative and funny and honestly? Kind of a visionary. You’re so much smarter than you give yourself credit for.” I pause, still stroking his leg as I think. “You’re nicer than you give yourself credit for, too. I mean yes, you can be rude and selfish, I’m not blind.” I grin, thinking about how difficult it is for him to say please. “You’ve scammed a lot of people, and boy do you know how to hold a grudge.” Alright Teagan, you’ve made your point, time to get back to the good stuff. “But you are…you’re so incredibly loyal. And forgiving, too. And protective.”

I shrug. I’m running out of words to articulate my feelings. “I like laughing with you. I like _being_ with you. I love the way your mind works. And I love your heart.” Ah fuck it, the leg isn’t enough. I set his feet back in the chair and walk around the table. He sits up just in time to let me slide sideways into his lap. Having our faces close helps. He looks like he’s trying not to cry. I kiss him, slowly and sweetly. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against his. “I love you because you’re a good person. You make me feel safe. You’re crazy sexy.” That gets a smile, at least. “But more than that. Just because, I guess, you’re _my kind_ of good person.” I run a thumb along his cheek.

“Because,” I finish as inspiration strikes, “I could watch _Caddyshack_ with you every night for a month, and you’d still make it fun.”

He sighs, long and low. I can feel his shoulders sag and his chest deflate. Not quite the reaction I was going for. I pull back enough to see his whole face, looking at him with concern. “What’s wrong?”

He turns his face away. “It’s stupid.”

I cup his cheek again, coaxing him back. “No it isn’t. Even if it is, it’s not.”

He lets me turn his face, but his smile is wan. “Sure, that makes _loads_ of sense. Crazy lady.” I raise my eyebrows expectantly, and his pull down irritably. “Why couldn’t you be from this time?” Before I can answer, he goes on angrily. “I _believe_ you, ain’t that a bitch? I actually _believe_ you love me.” He snorts angrily, like he hates himself for being so gullible. “And I—” He breaks off, aborting whatever he was going to say, and falls into stormy silence.

The silence stretches. “Stan?” I ask quietly, hoping for more.

“I want it to stay like this,” he softly admits, closing his eyes.

Oh. I swallow hard. “I…was I wrong to tell you?” I blink, and a tear trickles down my cheek. “I mean…” I falter. I don’t see how I could _not_ tell him I love him, not since he found that note on my first day here. But loving him and loving _him_ aren’t quite the same, in his mind. “I’m sorry.” Another tear follows the first. “Part of _me_ wishes it could stay like this, too. You know that, right?”

He nods reluctantly.

I try to think of something to add. “I hate that it can’t last.” The tears keep falling, because what I’m saying is _true_. “But I mean…we’ll see each other again. And I want us to have this now. It’ll…” My voice breaks. “It’ll be a wonderful memory.” _I_ get to go home and right back into the arms of 2014 Stan. _He_ has to wait 25 years to see me again, and I hate that so much. Thinking about it makes me feel massively, miserably guilty. I press on through my tears and cracking voice. “I don’t _want_ you to spend the next two decades without me. But it’ll be okay. You’ll…at least on bad days, you’ll know there’s someone who loves you this much.” I fling my arms around him, crying into his bare chest.

Presently, his arms come up around me, awkwardly rubbing my back. “You’re killing me, Teegs,” he says without any heat to the complaint.

I sniffle. “Sorry.”

“Eh.” He hugs me back tightly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” I object, continuing to water his chest hair with my tears.

“Hey, I said it’s fine, okay? Cut it out.”

I sniffle again and nod, trying to pull myself back together.

“Hey,” Stan repeats, putting his hands on my shoulders and staring me down, “how long till dinner comes out?”

The question confuses me enough to help dry up my tears. I hiccup. “Half an hour…” I glance at the clock and wipe my cheeks. “Thirty-five minutes. Why?”

“Just realized.” He pushes me to my feet and stands up. “You told me we were gonna go dancing again. It’s been a week. Chop chop, sweetheart, let’s go.”

I sniffle and laugh at the same time, to disastrous results. “Um. Sure. Just, uh. Let me get a tissue.” Tissue, ha. Stan doesn’t own anything so civilized. I hurry over to the counter and grab a paper towel to blow my nose into.

He approaches the counter as well, grabbing the whisky bottle down from the cupboard. There’s not much left in it at this point. Stan swishes the bottle around, eyeing it with disapproval. “You don’t actually need this to dance, do you?”

I grimace. “I’m willing to attempt it sober. But I can’t make any promises about how that’s going to go.”

He thinks about that before shoving the bottle at me. “Better have it, then.”

Probably the right call. I unscrew the cap, put my mouth on the opening, and upend the bottle. We’re operating on a time constraint here, after all. No time for glasses. There’s barely more than a shot left, anyway.

I set the empty bottle down, and Stan looks at me admiringly. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You said that already,” I point out, limping after him as he heads out of the kitchen.

He leads me into a room we’ve spent very little time in before. Not for lack of trying on my part; the fireplace along one wall is just begging to be lit into cozy flames. But there’s no tv, and Stan clearly isn’t invested in the room. Even now that we’re in here, he tells me to hold my horses—like _I’m_ the one pushing this—and rushes off to someplace else. I sit down in front of the empty fireplace to wait, hugging my legs to me and staring into non-existent flames. My imagination is strong enough that I can almost feel the heat coming off. All I need is a nice soft rug, a glass of good rum, and a book with a little more plot than the stuff I’ve been reading lately.

I hear Stan’s footsteps creaking in the hallway and turn to see him reenter the room with a portable radio in one hand. I smile at the sight, because I had one just like it when I was in high school. He notices the grin and returns it. “You feeling like dancing yet?”

“If you’re asking whether the liquor’s kicked in, the answer is no. It’s been like two minutes.”

“Hmph.” He sets the radio down on a musty end table in the corner and bends over to plug it in. I admire the view. He’s ditched the pants while he was upstairs, leaving just a pair of green patterned boxers, but I’m more captivated by the scar on his shoulder. That one is _always_ going to get me.

As I continue to chill on the floor, waiting for Stan to stop fiddling with the radio dial and settle on something he likes, a warm sense of well-being creeps into the corners of my mind. Oh good, the alcohol _is_ doing its job. Just enough to let me ignore the fact that my ankle isn’t yet perfect and my natural sense of rhythm is terrible. Not even ignore it, really…just not care.

I exclaim in delight as a few bars of a song I know emerge from the dark static between stations. “Leave it here! I love this one!” 1960s pop tunes might be the only thing besides Stan and alcohol that can make me want to dance. (Unless you count embarrassing my children, but that’s more of a bonus than a motivation.)

“Really?” He cranks up the volume, letting the insipid lyrics and bouncing beat fill the air around us. “Me too.” As he offers me his hands, pulling me smoothly up to my feet, I realize the song isn’t even halfway through yet. That strikes me as particularly awesome.

“So how does this work?” I ask, already allowing my hips to bop from side to side. “Are you actually _teaching_ me this time, or we just fumbling through?”

“Who said anything about fumbling?” He releases my hands. “You’re already doing half of it! Just move your arms now.” He demonstrates, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek. He makes it look natural and fun, but there’s something ridiculous about seeing a strong man in his 30s doing retro dance moves in his boxers.

I get past my urge to laugh, trying to imitate the circles he just made with his forearms. “Like that?” Having music certainly does make it easier.

“You got it, sweetie.” He winks at me, bringing his legs into the dance as well. “See? Told you you could dance.”

The strange thing is that these are the movies my body naturally wants to do to the music. I follow tentatively along with him for a minute, but by the time we get to the end of the song I’m twisting around on my own with something akin to confidence. We’re not even touching, but having him doing the same moves opposite cures some of my insecurity. I laugh happily as the song winds down. “This is surreal! That’s seriously all there is to it?”

“You can’t just do it for every song,” he warns me as a new, less familiar tune comes on the radio.

At least it has another easy beat. “Then show me what to do for _this_ song.” I make up some stupid moves on my own, stepping side to side and moving with my shoulders.

Stan’s already moving comfortably to the music. “Yeah, good. Now get over here.” When I do, he puts his hands on my waist, picks me up, and spins me around through the air before setting me lightly back on my feet and letting go of one of my hands.

It is impossible, I quickly learn, to dance with Stan and not get into it. The 1960s music has always been my favorite, and its moves are far more my speed than the sort of thing my sons do at their school dances. I can’t twerk or shimmy or grind or whatever horrors young people are doing in my time, and I could barely handle the tamer moves of the 1980s. But this? _This_ is goofy. _This_ is natural. _This_ is _fun_.

I lean against the fireplace catching my breath when the radio station goes into a commercial. My head feels clear again already, and my ankle starts throbbing as soon as I stop moving. “Dammit.” I lift my foot off the floor, doing a good impression of a flamingo. “I can’t stop. If I quit moving, I’m done for the night.”

“You’re gonna regret this, you know.” He takes me back into his arms anyway, putting one hand on my waist and the other on my hand.

“Don’t care.” I grin. “Teach me a new move.”

“To the Pink Gum jingle?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows.

“Hell yeah,” I agree wholeheartedly.

“Okay crazy lady,” he smiles at me, and I rest my free hand on his bare shoulder. “Let’s see if you can handle _this_.”

*

“Ugh,” I groan later, curling up tightly against Stan’s side under the covers. “I _hurt_.”

His fingertips brush my bare side as he turns his face back toward me. “You weren’t complaining a couple minutes ago.”

I shake my head against his shoulder. “A couple minutes ago you were doing things that took my mind off my ankle.”

“Ohhhh,” he teases me, exaggerating his surprise. “Your _ankle_. Your _ankle_ hurts. Not your—”

“No,” I laugh softly. “No, everything else is still feeling pretty incredible.”

“Good.” He runs his fingers through my loose hair. “Gotta say, I’m not normally into older women, but this gray streak is pretty hot.”

“Older women.” I scoff. “ _Three years_ , asshole.”

“Hey, I’m saying you’re hot!” he retorts defensively. “Take a compliment, jeez. Anyway—” He jabs a finger into the center of my chest. “How many chances am I gonna have to rub in that you’re older than me?”

“Can’t argue with that one,” I surrender, and we lapse into comfortable silence.

“Like your glow, too,” he adds just when I’m starting to doze off.

“Hm?”

“Your glow. Light. Whatever you wanna call it.” I open my eyes in time to see his slow, cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin. “Makes it easy to find what I’m looking for in the dark.”

I smile drowsily at this insinuation. “I like it too. Means I can see you even when the lights are out.”

“Oh yeah?”

Still feeling tired and dreamy, I nod my head and yawn. “I like your face.” Spoiling the moment, my ankle gives another angry throb. “My ankle still hurts,” I grumble.

“Watch it.” Stan’s eyes warm and happy enough to make up for the pain. “You keep screwing up that ankle, you’re never gonna get out of here.”

I snuggle closer against him. “That’s your devious plan, isn’t it?”

“ _My_ plan? I didn’t _make_ you spend half an hour cutting a rug, you know.”

“It was your idea.”

“Oh sure, _my_ idea.” He rolls his eyes, playing the martyr.

“Well it _was_ ,” I giggle. “And I loved it.” My ankle aches harder again. It really _was_ stupid of me to do all that dancing, I know that. But I still can’t quite regret it. I roll over on my back in the tiny twin bed, nearly falling off the side in the process before I settle into a position that will _hopefully_ easy the pain. Two people really do not belong in a single-person bed. Just means I have to snuggle very close to him. “Stan…” I turn my head back toward him. My sleepiness has subsided, and he still looks wide awake. “Tell me about yourself?” I ask, searching for a new way to feel close.

He shakes his head slightly, smiling. “You know it all already, doncha?”

Maybe, maybe not. He’s always been cagey about certain things, and I respect that. But if he feels like sharing… “Pretend I don’t.” I roll back toward him, since lying on my back isn’t helping. “I just like hearing you talk.”

He’s silent for a while, either thinking or falling asleep. Really, either is alright with me. I try to cultivate my sleepiness again, too.

“I got married once,” he says suddenly. “In Vegas. Little scam artist.” I open my eyes, but his are still closed. “I just…I don’t trust easy, okay? You’re a weird one. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t trust you either. Just can’t come up with a good enough reason not to. Can’t see what your game would be.”

I sneak one hand around his back and one over his chest in what I hope is a reassuring hug. “There’s no game.”

“Like I said earlier—I believe you. That’s the part that scares me.”

“You believed her, too?” I ask, not really wanting to voice that idea.

He doesn’t seem to mind, at least. He nods. “She was good. Played it really cute and innocent. Came on just strong enough, not like some, uh…”

“Femme fatale?” I suggest.

“Right.” Stan nods again. “You’d think I’d’ve caught on. I pulled enough scams of my own by then! But she was just…she was good. Made me think the whole thing was my idea. I offered to take her out after her shift. I got drunk enough to pour out a big long sob story to her. I cried on her shoulder and told her how great she was. I told her we should go get married. It’s so easy out there. Didn’t even have to use my real name.”

“Oh, honey,” I murmur sorrowfully, stroking his chest. “That’s awful.”

“Marilyn,” he says after a beat. “If that was _her_ real name. Marilyn Rosenstein. I can’t even hate her. Gotta respect a good con when I see one.”

“What did she _get_ from it?” I ask. Maybe _he_ doesn’t feel angry about the whole thing, but I’d like to destroy the bitch. He’s mentioned this story before, and I know it has something to do with his car—but clearly, she didn’t get that. So what was the point of all the manipulation?

“Just my dignity,” he says with a definite hint of bitterness. “She thought I had a lot more cash on me than I did. Tried to run off with my car when she found out she was wrong, but her hot-wiring wasn’t nearly as good as her smooth-talking.” He smiles, a little vindictively.

“Good,” I say, full of hostility. “Did she go to jail?”

His chest rumbles with a low laugh. “What, you think _I_ was gonna hire a _lawyer_? Call in the _cops_?”

“No, of course not. Sorry, don’t know what came over me.” I smile wryly and twist upward to kiss him. “What a bitch. There’s running a con, and then there’s exploiting someone’s emotions.”

“ _She_ threatened to call the cops on _me_ , though,” Stan continues. “After I caught her in the Stanmobile. Some nerve, eh?”

I drop my jaw in outrage. “Tell me you hit her,” I half-growl, half-moan. “Tell me you punched her lights out.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I told you she was a smooth talker. Got me convinced she really could get me arrested. And maybe she could have.” His mouth twists in displeasure. “I did spill way too much to her. Anyhow, she talked me into giving her most of my money in return for a quick painless annulment. Heh, she got me good.”

“You’re not seriously laughing about it?” I demand, indignant on his behalf.

“Oh, I was pissed as hell,” he asserts wholeheartedly. “But it was a long time ago.”

“How long?” I ask curiously. I’m still thinking uncharitable thoughts about Marilyn, but I can be a good listener at the same time.

“Uh…fifteen years?” Good grief, he actually has to think about it. “Took me five years or so before I made it out west, so that’d be about right.”

So he’d been twenty-three, or thereabouts. For me, with a kid a few years away from starting college, it sounds painfully young. The idea that he’d been five years and thousands of miles removed from his home and family, getting his heart broken by some heartless little… I take a deep breath. That’s not fair. Maybe she had a heart. After all, Stan does, and I’m aware of _his_ long list of crimes. But I don’t know her, and I do know him, and thinking about the whole thing doesn’t put me in a forgiving mood.

“I wish I could take away all the shitty things in your past,” I murmur, wrapping my arms tighter around him. “You’re a good person. You deserve better.”

“Which is why I’m gonna be rich and famous someday.” Even lying down, I can feel him puff out his chest. “I just need to get Ford back from whatever whack-job dimension he’s lost in, and then we’ll…” He trails off as his thoughts catch up to his mouth. “Ah, damn it.”

I have nothing I can say to make this better and I know it—especially after our discussion earlier tonight. But I have to say _something_. “You’re happy, Stan,” I tell him quietly. “I know it’s not what you want, but life _never_ goes according to plan.”

He pulls me over on top of him and kisses me. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking at all right now, which bothers me. But eventually his touch pulls me out of my own thoughts, and by the time we finally fall asleep it’s just possible that neither of us is thinking anything much at all.


	10. Chapter 10

The snow really is melting now. There’s no way I can continue to deny the reality of that. I should be relieved, and in a way I am. It means I won’t wind up a charred pile of flesh and ash on the floor of the gift shop, after all. But most of me _has_ been denying it. I want an excuse to stay in 1989 for as long as possible.

I want to stay alive, but the idea of going back makes me miserable. It’s been two and a half weeks, and I can limp about fairly well now. I even made it into town the other day, where I bought some cheap groceries (and even a bottle of real hair conditioner) without any of the locals commenting on my shorts or finding out I’m staying at the Shack. I’m madly, passionately in love. The idea of leaving Stan is just unbearable. The only thing that keeping me from completely coming apart is the fact that I’ll be going home to the same man. One who has missed me. One who will finally be able to admit that he recalls all the memories we’ve been making so recently. I can’t wait to gently pull his glasses off, comb my fingers through his gray hair, and watch the lines around his eyes crinkle up when he’s trying to decide whether to tease me or kiss me.

Only I _can_ wait, can’t I.

I miss the rest of my family, the people who _aren’t_ here in 1989. The ones who normally stop me dancing like an idiot or jumping Stan in random locations. The ones who add brightness, color, and yes, frustration to my life. The ones I fed in the middle of the night when they were babies, and the ones I didn’t meet until they were into the awkward preteen phase. The ones who sleep at night, and the one who just drifts into silent invisibility for a few hours. I’m enjoying my vacation immensely, and I feel guilty about it.

I also feel guilty about the prospect of going back to them.

In short, I’m torn. It’s probably for the best that I spend most of my waking hours creating, studying, or focusing entirely on Stan. By now we’ve created some pretty cool “ghosts” for the show room. I’ve helped him run inventory again, learned a new code, advised him on chocolates to stock, and put a few more pins in the world map downstairs. We’ve also gone through every VHS he owns more than once and run through most of the recipes I know roughly by heart.

But right now I’m sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window while the coffee percolates, loving the site of warm spring sunshine and hating the reminder of what it means.

“Hey Teegs, check this out!” Stan strolls in, holding something small and shiny in his hand. A coin, I realize as he crosses the kitchen. He stops a few feet from me to walk the quarter across the backs of his fingers. It’s unexpected and impressive, at least to my mind.

“That’s awesome! Let me try.” I reach for the coin, but he yanks his arm back, making me stand up and lean into him to grab at it.

“Hey, hey, I don’t just give money away, sweetheart.”

“Yes you do.” I make another snatch at his hand. “You gave me twenty bucks when we went into town the other day.” Demonstrating impressive levels of maturity, I stick my tongue out at him.

“And can you make twenty bucks walk across your knuckles like this?” He does it again, and I refrain from reaching for it so that I can watch the trick.

“What, did you just teach yourself to do that in the shower?” I fold my arms over my chest, glaring at him as if I’m unimpressed.

“Nah.” The coin makes it back to his thumb, and he flips it into the air and catches it in his palm. “I been doing this for years. The exciting part was finding a quarter!”

I snort in laughter. “Penny-pincher.”

“ _Penny_? This is a _quarter_ , sweetie, are you blind?” He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, allowing me to get a closer look. “I just _found_ it by the door to the gift shop on my way downstairs. Can you believe that?”

I do a poor job or suppressing a smirk. “So let me get this straight. Moving a coin across your fingers and back, that’s boring. But finding twenty-five cents just outside a place where people spend money is remarkable?”

He gives me a long look. “Yes.”

I shrug. “Fair enough. But show me the trick again anyway.”

“What, this?” The coin reappears between his fingers as he sits down opposite me, moving smoothly from one finger to the next.

“Yeah.” I lean forward, admiring the fluidity of the movement. “Now let me try.”

“Not just anybody can do this,” he tells me, flipping it into my lap. “You need magic hands.”

“Oh. Well. That explains it.” I wink. He did some pretty magical things with his hands the other night, too. He grins wolfishly, and I position the quarter carefully on the back of my pinky. I twist my fingers, trying to make the coin move over to my ring finger, and drop it on the table instead. Come on, hands, you can do better than that! You know how to pick locks and dice onions, don’t you? I try again, attempting to force my fingers to remember the bits of sleight of hand I learned last summer. I do slightly better this time, but it’s hardly impressive.

“Coffee’s done,” Stan announces, breaking my concentration in the middle of my fifth attempt. At least I know how to _flip_ a coin; I flick it upward with the back of my thumb, sending it to land in the middle of the table. I’m already to the kitchen counter when I hear Stan scooping it back up. Mugs are already out. I pour two and add plenty of sugar. If there’s one thing I have absolutely no regrets about today, it’s my improved ability to replicate Stan’s extra strong coffee.

“Okay, watch this one,” he says when I return to the table. “I been working on this, right?” He shoves his steaming mug to the side while I sip at mine, watching him with interest. The coin is back in his hand. He holds it up high for show, and I grin over the rim of my cup. “Now that you’ve touched it, you can testify this is a normal quarter, right? Nothing special, nothing magical.”

Wow, am I getting a _show_? I nod at once, going along with act. “Totally normal quarter.”

“ _Well_ ,” says Stan, “what if I was to tell you that I can move it from one hand to the other… _with magic_?”

“I’d say you have magic hands,” I reiterate with slightly less innuendo. “But I’ll have to see it to believe it.”

“Watch, then.” He places the coin very obviously into the center of his right hand and makes a fist around it. “Now it’s in this hand.” He holds up the closed fist for show. “But _now_ …” He waves the fist over his open left hand, as if working an illusion. I take a sip of my coffee, paying attention. His face twitches, and he repeats the action, shaking his fist this time. “ _Now_ , I…dammit.” He does it again, more vigorously. I don’t _see_ the coin go flying, but I see him flinch, and I hear it hit the linoleum somewhere behind him.

Not one to surrender, Stan slides out of his chair, crawls around on the floor for half a minute, and returns to his seat with a wide, cheesy grin. He opens his left fist to show me the coin there. “Ta-da!”

Of course I start laughing. “I love you,” I say, shaking my head and giggling. “But I’d say that one needs a little more work.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He shoves the quarter into his pocket and picks up his coffee. He looks more amused than put out, at least. “I’ll get it one of these days.”

“The first one was still awesome,” I remind him. “And you look great today, by the way.”

“Yeah? You like it?” He perks up even more at the praise.

I nod enthusiastically. “You look very professional. Legitimate, even.”

We spent last night digging through a trunk of old clothes after I suggested business might improve if he looked more like an authority figure. We found a few dress shirts that, while tight in the shoulders, come close enough to fitting him. I’m sure they’re Ford’s. Neither of us mentions it. The dress slacks we found are a little tight, too, which is probably why he hasn’t bothered putting them on yet today. But when coupled with a belt, white dress shirt, and the same maroon fez he’s been wearing for years, the effect is pretty dashing. He looks more like a slick conman than shady grifter. I still feel like it needs something else, and I’d like to see him buy a shirt that doesn’t strain around his upper arms, but it’s a start.

“I dunno.” He shrugs his shoulders unhappily, as if reading my mind. “Feels weird.”

“Just give it a try.” I smile. “I think people are going to find it reassuring and inspiring. But you are under no obligation to take my business advice.” I pause, sipping my coffee, and then add “Though you might want to put some pants on before you go out there.”

“You sure?” Stan grins.

“Sadly, yes.” I let my eyes drop, pretending the table’s invisible and I can see his polka dot boxers. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they come off as soon as you kick out at the last customer.” I look back up to the collar of his shirt, which isn’t quite buttoned all the way. Hot. I can’t see the undershirt I know he’s wearing, but there are a few dark curls poking through above the top button. It makes me want to _undo_ the buttons, very slowly. Maybe with my teeth. I’ll put that on my to-do list for after work, too.

“Teegs.” His voice pulls me back out of my thoughts. “There’s coffee in your hands, and you’re looking at _me_ with that face.”

I blush and drop my eyes back to my coffee. Not that I have anything to really be embarrassed about at this point. I’ve done a lot worse (or better) than undress him with my eyes. But every now and then he still catches me off guard, and I react like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar.

Stan tips his chair back, looking very pleased with himself. “I think I’ll wear it. At least for today. You know, see how it goes.”

“Hold on.” I picked up a cheap disposable camera while in town the other day, and it’s been sitting in the tv room since taking a few completely stupid and unnecessary snapshots of him that night. I justified the purchase by saying that I could take some promotional photos for him to make fliers, and this is a lot closer to promotional than the first six photos on the roll. Besides, the light coming in the kitchen window is perfect.

I abandon my coffee long enough to hurry into the tv room, find the camera lying next to the box of movies, and return to the kitchen. Stan’s still seated at the table with his coffee, professional from the waist up, watching me curiously. I hold up the camera as I drop back into my seat. “This needs to be recorded, Mr. Handsome. For posterity.”

He tips his fez forward as though it’s a fedora and leans back further in his chair. He even goes so far as to prop his feet up on the table, totally spoiling the image I was going for. It is, however, very Stan. I get back up so I can fit all of him into the shot—the ridiculous hat, the unfastened collar, the boxers, the hairy legs, the feet on the table. The morning sunlight catches all the right angles. I take another shot, pleased, and step closer. “This is totally going on the fliers.”

“Sounds good.” He slouches lower down in his chair as I move closer again, aiming for just a head-and-shoulders close up this time.

“Beautiful, dahling,” I say in a terrible imitation of a professional photographer. “Just beautiful. You’re flawless!” He opens his eyes, raising one eyebrow skeptically as I snap another picture.

Something about this feels familiar. I chase the feeling, trying to think what might be triggering this particular déjà vu. I’ve taken a few photos of Stan in my time, sure, but none sitting at this kitchen table. In my time, this kitchen is the sole domain of Soos’ abuela. But I…

My brow furrows and I lower the camera. I haven’t been here before. But the _picture_ is familiar. Now that I think about it, all the ones I’ve taken are. I’ve seen them. Mabel brought them to me last August, thinking I’d enjoy the old photos she’d found of her uncle. I remember sitting there with her on the sofa of our cabin, laughing with her over, thinking how good-looking Stan had been when he was younger, _looking at these exact photos_.

I shudder and set the camera down on the table. Noticing my abrupt change in demeanor, Stan tips his hat back out of his face. “What’s up?” I shake my head, but he folds his arms on his chest and raises his eyebrows, staring me down till I answer.

“I took these pictures,” I say, and the promptly realize how stupid that sounds. _Obviously_ I took them. Try harder, Teagan. “I’ve seen them in the future. The pictures I _just_ took. I saw them before I ever came here.” I swallow a big gulp of air, feeling shaken. “I mean…I guess that’s good? Right? It means I’m supposed to be here.” It means this really is a bizarre time loop. I always came here in 1989. I just didn’t know it till 2014. That should assuage my conscious, but right now I’m in shock from the weirdness of it.

“Course you’re supposed to be here.” Stan puts his feet down, reaching across the table to take my hand with a surprisingly soft expression. “Told you so, didn’t I? You’re not screwing things up. You’re making them the way they’re supposed to be.”

I squeeze his hand. “I could still screw things up. There’s no guidebook for this sort of thing.”

He sighs and shakes his head at me. “You’re determined not to enjoy yourself, aren’t you.”

“You don’t think I’ve been enjoying myself?” There’s no way he can really believe I haven’t.

“No, I think you’ve—”

A loud hammering from the gift shop door grabs both our attention, leaving the sentence unfinished and forgotten. I look up at the clock on the wall as Stan throws back the rest of his coffee in a few hurried gulps. “Shit? How is it already nine?”

“Who the hell turns up for a tour this early?” Stan retorts, running up the stairs to get his pants.

“You do list the hours as nine to five outside the building,” I answer even though I doubt he’ll hear me. At least he’s getting fully dressed. Whoever it is knocks at the door again as Stan comes tearing back down the stairs, attempting to straighten his fez and fasten his pants at the same time. I catch him before he can open the door to the gift shop, buttoning his sleeves for him as he finishes buckling his belt. “I’ll see you tonight,” I promise, giving him a quick kiss. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

*

I have been here three weeks. Yesterday, I snuck out the back door of the Shack, felt the warm sunlight on my face, got my ace bandage soaked in a muddy puddle of slush, and discovered my dead smartphone next to some small orange flowers blooming.

The day before, we spent over an hour listening and dancing to the radio instead of watching a movie after dinner. Though it was a little sore later on, my ankle didn’t fail me at all this time. It felt great to get some exercise. And at least ten minutes of the evening were spent swaying in slow, intimate rotations to romantic 60s ballads. I never knew I could enjoy dancing so much.

Three days ago, I went through the trunk of clothing again while Stan was at work and found a wide red tie that I thought might go well with his new look. That evening I rummaged around through the various art supplies he mainly uses to create strange and mysterious monstrosities for the show room. I found some yellow fabric which I was able to cut into the shape of a question mark and stitch onto the tie. Stan’s absolutely delighted about the idea to incorporate a question mark—he made me use up the rest of my film that night, and he’s been wearing the entire outfit to work every day since. He also asked me yesterday whether I thought we could get the question mark trademarked to the Mystery Shack. Pity it doesn’t work that way.

But after a week of enjoying ourselves wholeheartedly, it’s time to buckle back down and get to work in the laboratory. Stan doesn’t know that I only have a week left here, exactly, but he knows that the middle of the woods is now the only place with any snow _left_. Another day or two, and I’m going to have to ask him to close up shop and take a daylight walk into the woods with me. I could do it without him, theoretically, but I’m still not completely sure what caused my time travel and I can’t stand the thought of accidentally leaving without saying goodbye.

Also, I might trip and fall on my face again. Just because I didn’t bother putting the bandage back on my ankle after getting it dirty yesterday doesn’t mean I trust myself very far.

At any rate, I know that even though he’s been enjoying the romance and business we’ve been throwing ourselves into, he’s been feeling guilty about not spending enough time trying to recover Ford. Not that he’s missed a single day of checking off instruments and making sure the place is pristine, but we haven’t been spending nearly as much time down there lately as we did when I first arrived. Before I came here, I’m sure he was spending _all_ his free time trying to devise some sort of impossible solution to the puzzle his brother left him. So he when he tells me he wants to go back down there for a few hours after dinner, I don’t complain. I tell him I’ll come keep him company and work on the map some more.

He won’t bring the radio down; I’m not sure if he’s more worried about its signal messing up the machinery, or some music messing up our concentration. I pore over journal entries and code books while he makes his daily notes and miniscule changes, and then we sit in companionable silence on the floor. I sit with my legs stretched out straight in front of me, finding coordinates and sticking pins into them as Stan, lying on his back with his head in my lap, reads the numbers off the lists. It’s nice.

Mostly nice. The triangular shape taking form around the edges of the map has been vaguely bothering me for a while, which is part of the reason we haven’t worked on it in several days. But my objection isn’t sensible. A triangle could mean a _lot_ of things. It’s the strongest shape there is. And I wasn’t there in 2012, all of this is just fear based on things other people have told me. Even if I’m _not_ being paranoid, how can I possibly explain my concerns to Stan? Bill Cipher and Weirdmaggedon are one step removed from fairy tales for me, I’m in no position to describe them. And I shouldn’t be describing them anyway. That’s one of the things that _has_ to happen organically. If I put my fingers in this one, if Stan winds up knowing too much, it could end not just my future but the whole world.

And yet, when Stan gets up to stretch and take a break, he glances down at the map and makes a face. “Look at this.” Feeling cold all over, I get up as well. I’ve been close enough to the map tonight that it’s been hard to see anything but a spotty field of pins, but if Stan’s noticed something…

While I’m getting up, he takes another step back, cocking his head to the side as he surveys the field of pins. I stand beside him, and if I thought I felt cold a second ago, it’s nothing compared to the pit of ice my stomach becomes when I turn and look.

The pins aren’t just clusters or loose shapes anymore. They are a very, very definite shape. A shape that I’ve only seen sketched out on paper before. A large triangle, with what I’d thought were outliers transforming into thin legs and arms. A previously inexplicable cluster above the triangle now looks like a top hat. There’s a pattern of straight lines inside the bottom half of the triangle, and what is unmistakably a giant eye above them.

I wish the idea of coordinates had never _occurred_ to me. I have to tell him. I absolutely _can’t_ tell him. My knees feel week, and my palms are suddenly cold and sweaty. I wipe them on my thighs, realizing as I do that I’m trembling.

“That look like a cartoon to you?” Stan asks, completely unaware of what I’m going through. “Like a triangle guy wearing a hat. It’s not just me, right?”

What am I supposed to say? I rub my hands harder against my thighs and try to sound casual. “No, I can see it. That’s weird!”

He glances over at me with concern. “You okay there?”

I manage a sickly smile. “Yeah. Fine.”

Looking at me more intently, he steps closer and puts his hands on my waist. “You sure? You don’t look fine.”

“You’re not supposed to say that to a woman,” I attempt to joke. Alright, he’s clearly not buying it. Plan B? “I think I stood up too fast, is all. I got dizzy.”

“You getting tired, maybe?” He keeps his hands where they are, steadying me. But since I’m lying to his face right now, his concern only serves to make me feel worse. “We were up pretty late last night.” He slides his hands from my waist to my butt, pulling me flush against him. Normally this sort of behavior would help, too. But I can barely manage lifting my arms and wrapping them around the back of his neck. When he moves to kiss me, I duck my head.

Stan releases me, hands settling into fists as he pulls away. “Okay, what gives?”

Turns out my stomach can drop even _more_. “What’s wrong?” I ask innocently.

He glares at me. “Cut the crap, Teegs. That guy mean something to you?” He gestures to the image in the map.

Damn it. I try to remind myself that I’ve lied to Stan before over the past year, usually in the name of stupid pranks. I should be able to pull off the same feat for something this serious. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I think maybe I _am_ tired. You know that headache you get when you—”

He steps forward, putting his hands back on me—but hard this time, gripping my upper arms as he scowls. “I _said_ cut the _crap_. What’re you hiding? That map you’ve been avoiding working on, after it was _your_ idea. You afraid it’s gonna key me into something that’s actually _useful_?”

“Ow!” I try to pull back. “No! It’s nothing useful! It’s the _opposite_ of useful!” I clamp my mouth shut, worried more words will spill out if I don’t.

“Ha, so it _is_ about the map!” He loosens his grip in response to my protest, but not by much. “Let me guess—you can’t tell me because you don’t want to screw up the future.” His eyes flash dangerously as he sneers the words at me, and I shrink in on myself. It’s not that I think he’ll hurt me. It’s the fact that he’s mocking me. No, not even that. It’s the fact that I’ve hurt him.

“Knew it,” he growls when he realizes I’m not going to answer. He releases me abruptly, turning away. “That’s _always_ the excuse.” The fact that I’m not saying anything in my own defense keeps making him angrier, and after a minute he spins back. “Funny how you say you love me, but you aren’t willing to do anything that’ll actually _help_ me.”

I take a step toward him, and he retreats; my face falls, and I no longer know what to do with my hands. I grip my elbows with them, watching Stan, wishing he’d meet my eyes. “I would if I could, honey! I really _would_. But I _can’t_.”

“No,” he snaps, “you just _won’t_.” He lets that blow really land before continuing. “You said I’m me either way, right? You said age doesn’t matter. I’m the same either way, you love me either way. Right?” I jiggle my head, but the question is clearly too important to him to be answered with a nod. “ _Right_?”

“Yes,” I answer simply through a tight throat. “I do.”

Hearing that seems to deflate a little of his anger, but not the desperation that’s seized him. “Then who _cares_ about the future?” He comes back, into my space, resting his hands on my shoulders as he tries to convince me. “Stay here with me, now. You’re not losing anything, I…I promise.” Apparently I’m not the only one whose voice is being sabotaged by emotion. “Stay here and help me, and we’ll make a _new_ future.”

The subtext of that offer isn’t lost on me. A _promise_. This isn’t something short-term for him. It’s not that he doesn’t care about whether or not he sees me again after this is all over. It’s that he can’t stand the thought of waiting a quarter century to do it. He’s offering me something that 2014 Stan, for all that he’s shown me he loves me, has never been able to promise—a lifetime together.

But that’s not a promise I can make in return.

“It’s not just about you,” I remind him as gently as I know how. “I have kids, remember? I know you don’t know them, but I love them. If we change the future, what happens to them?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t push me away again. He actually looks encouraged by this objection, almost eager. “You’re still out there somewhere in Michigan, right? You’ll still marry Frank, you’ll still have your kids. They’ll still have you. Maybe things’ll go differently, but they’ll still have their mom.” His hands move from my shoulders up to my face, gently tipping my chin up and caressing my cheeks. “And _I’ll_ still have _you_. Everybody wins.” He grins at me hopefully.

“Stan…”

The look on my face must give him my answer. I can see the pain register in his eyes before I’ve said a word. If I could take it back, tell him I’d stay—in that minute, I’d do it. I think he must see _that_ in my face, too, because he doesn’t turn away this time. I take a deep breath. I should have just told him about this from the start. But hindsight is always 20/20.

“Even if…” I shake my head, nixing that. “I want to,” I say baldly, putting myself out there as much as he just has. “I would. But I _can’t_. I…there’s something I haven’t told you.” I take another deep breath, trying to let it out slowly. The knot in my chest is making things difficult.

“Go on, then,” he says, voice deceptively hard and even. “Tell me.”

I nod and shut my eyes. “If I don’t get back to 2014 in the next seven days, I’m going to die.”

Whatever he’s expecting me to say, it clearly isn’t that. “What?” he practically yelps, momentarily letting go of my face in his surprise. He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind…or like he wishes I had.

I smile sadly at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t want to put anything else on top of you when you’d already rescued me once. And then I didn’t quite trust you. And then I was worried about guarding the future. And then I told myself I didn’t want to complicate things.”

“Get to the point, Teegs,” he says softly.

He’s right. “I told you I glow because I swallowed a firefly, right?” He nods uncertainly. “Well, we found out about a week after it happened that the dumb thing altered my genetics somehow. I don’t really get the science of it. But the thing is, if I don’t keep that exact Gravity Falls firefly in my diet, I…die.”

Stan stares at me for a long minute. “Lemme sit down.” Still feeling a little shaky, I nod. When he sinks down onto the floor, I sit right against him. Our fingers twine together on the floor. “So you’re saying you have to _eat_ fireflies.”

I nod, then shake my head, then nod again. “Basically. Ford was able to make a pill out of them that I take once a month.”

He smiles wryly. “ _That’s_ how he saved your life. Science.” He snorts. “Figures.”

It feels good to share a smile with him, even for just a second. “Anyway, I took my last pill right before I wound up here. Which is lucky, believe me. When I first arrived, I was terrified it would wear off before the snow melted. That’s why I was scrambling for solutions to get home.”

“Makes sense,” he agrees. I notice that his thumb is stroking the side of my hand, and I take a lot of heart from that tiny gesture. He doesn’t hate me. “So, uh…are you sure? I mean, how do you _know_ you’ll die if you don’t get this pill?”

I grimace. “I don’t think you really want the details.” Ah, who am I kidding, this is Stan. Of course he wants all the gory details. “Long story short, we caught some glowing toads at the same time I swallowed the firefly. They lit up just like I do. A few days after their last meal, they started giving off…a _lot_ of heat. And then so did I. They kept getting hotter and hotter. So did I. One of them burst into flames and was dead before we could so much as dump some water on it. I guess I don’t _know_ that would happen to me, too, but I’d rather not take my chances.”

“Yeah.” He sighs heavily, and he tugs me up against his side.

“I’m sorry,” I say miserably.

We sit in silence, hands joined, for what feels like a long time. Then Stan sighs again, brushes irritably at his cheek, and clears his throat. “ _Seven days_ , you said? And you haven’t even started _looking_ for that thing in the woods yet? What, do you have a death wish or something? We gotta get you _home_.”

*

Luckily—at least in some ways—getting me home that night is completely out of the question. It means we have another night to spend together, a night to calm down and just enjoy one another after all the bombshells and emotional turbulence. It’s marred by the knowledge that time is running short, but we manage to make the most of it nonetheless.

First up, I feel obligated to point out that I do not in fact have a death wish. There has been snow on the ground. I’ve been unable to walk. I’ve been enjoying myself. Lots of good reasons to put off my departure. Stan calls me a crazy lady anyway, but I think he likes knowing that to some extent sleeping with him took priority over self-preservation.

That leads us directly into a conversation about where to go from here. I argue that there’s still snow in the woods, and my sense of direction is terrible, so we should put off searching until the paths are all clear. Stan counters that if my sense of direction is so terrible it might take days of searching to find the spot I came through, and even when we find it we don’t know it’ll magically take me home, so we need to start looking as soon as possible. I tell him I refuse to let him close the Shack for multiple days and lose all that potential revenue helping me wander around the woods. He responds that he refuses to let me die on his watch.

I guess I can’t argue with that.

So we agree that tomorrow we’ll go into the woods and try to find the spot where I accidentally went back in time. Best case scenario: we find it quickly, establish than I can use it to go home at will, and stay together until I literally _have_ to leave. Worst case scenario: we can’t find it. Or we find it but learn that neither the location nor that weird tape measure was responsible for the time jump. In that case, I write up a new note and we go look for Horace in what will someday be my house.

If we do that and no one turns up from the future to rescue me, what then? Are there any local entomologists who might have a stash of dead fireflies they’d let me eat? I can’t imagine that working for long, but I guess it’s _possible_ it could keep me going until the real fireflies come out in spring. Or I could give cutting myself and drinking my own blood another shot. The ideas get considerably more desperate and short-term as we toss them around until I finally press my hands to my head and tell him we have to stop. One step at a time, or we’re going to lose our minds.

Letting go of that anxiety isn’t easy. I think it’s easier for me, because I’ve been tossing this stuff around inside my head for weeks. Stan’s still coming to terms with the idea that I could literally die if I don’t leave. The only good thing is that at least now he understands why I’ve been so keen to preserve my own timeline. In the end, we distract ourselves from thoughts of mortality the same way people have been doing it for centuries.

That’s when we finally make our way back upstairs. Afterward, he asks me again about the map and the triangle guy. “You can’t tell me details, fine, I get that.” He’s not _happy_ about it, but he gets it. “But is it any good? Do I hang onto it and keep feeding in those numbers?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit reluctantly. “My gut tells me no. I think…I don’t think it’ll tell you anything that’ll get the portal working again. That triangle will give you less useful answers than I have. But…”

“But?” he prompts.

“ _But_ ,” I answer thoughtfully, “you don’t have to trust me. You should trust _your_ gut. That’s the only thing I can say with absolute certainty. You don’t need any help or advice. You can do this.”

“And what if my gut’s telling you to trust you?”

Despite myself, a smile emerges. “Then I guess you should trust me.” We lay there silently for a bit, but as I enjoy the warmth of the bed and the sound of Stan’s heart beating under my ear, another thought nags at me. “Okay, this is dumb, but I have to say it anyway. You know you don’t have to wait for me or anything, right?”

A rumble of amusement joins the sound of his heartbeat. “Good. Cause I wasn’t planning on it.” I shove him playfully, and he laughs aloud. “Hey, what’d you expect? It’s a long time to 2014.”

“I wish it wasn’t,” I say wistfully.

“Don’t start that up again! I can’t handle any more crying.”

“I know. I just…the fact that you asked me to stay. That means a lot.”

“Quit it, I said.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too. Jeez, what is this, a soap opera?”

“And I’m not going to stop just because I have to leave.”

“Do I have to _make_ you shut up?”

I twist my head, kissing his chest. “Afraid so. I’m just going to keep telling you I love you until you do. I love you, Stan. I love you. I love you. I—”

He coaxes me up toward his face as I talk, and when I’m close enough to kiss he does indeed manage to shut me up.

*

I wake up early the next day. I put it down to nerves, since the little alarm clock by the bed didn’t even get set last night. But I’m glad I’m up. I have an idea.

Carefully, I extricate myself from Stan’s arms, pull on a shirt, and tiptoe down the steps to the tv room. The notebook I’ve been using to study is still there on top of the tv, full of notes I’ve taken while I read. I sit down in the dark room, pulling my pen out of the spine of the notebook, and immediately start writing.

_Stan. I know I’m going straight from here to my time—at least if everything goes according to plan, hope I didn’t just jinx myself somehow. But if I was living out the same 25 years you are, if I couldn’t be with you, I’d miss you. And I wouldn’t have stopped being in love with you. Not now, not ever. Yours, Teegs._ I fold up the page, tuck it in on itself, and label the back _1990._ I drop it into my lap and put my pen to a fresh page. _Stan. It’s been too long. I don’t know what you’re doing these days. I hope you’re doing something that makes you happy, at least now and then. It can’t be easy, and I hate the thought of you being alone. Maybe you’re not. I mean, you’re a good looking guy. Find someone who’ll dance to_ Shout and Twist _with you. And remember how much I love you. Yours always, Teagan._ I tear that one out, fold it up the same way, and write _1991_ on the back. I tap the pen against my lips for a minute, then start writing again. _Stan. Hang in there. Wherever and whenever I am, I’m thinking about you. Wish I was there with you. All my heart. Love, that crazy lady_.

My hand is cramping by the time sunlight starts to filter its way into the room. I have twenty-one little folded notes sitting in my lap. Each of them is brief and simple, and I have no way of knowing whether he’ll follow instructions and only open one a year. But at least it’s something.

One more to write. After that it’ll be 2013, and he’ll be seeing the real thing again. I spare a thought for lost, clueless 2013 Teagan, no idea of what she’s about to stumble into when she reserves that cabin in Oregon. I almost wish I could write a note to _her_ , too. But she’ll find out for herself. And I know how much fun she’s going to have doing it.

_Stan,_ I write for the last time that day, _I know for you it’s been forever since you’ve seen me. I don’t know how often you think about those three weeks from February years and years ago. We’ve had a lot longer apart than we ever had together. But I was really, genuinely in love with you in that time. And if everything goes the way it’s supposed to, we’ll see each other again soon. I mean, sure, I won’t remember any of it or even recognize you for the first year or so, but that’s not going to stop me falling for you. So be your amazing self and go get her. Me. You know. I love you then, now, and always. Teagan._

There. That’s the last of them. I dash the tears from my eyes, fold up the page, and carry all the notes in my shirt as I make my way into the kitchen. In the cupboard there, I find the jar that I bled into earlier this month. I cram all 22 notes into it and screw on the lid. Perfect. After thinking for a minute, I stick the jar into the cupboard that's home to all the spices I've been cooking with. If I know Stan, it's going to be a _long_ time before he looks in there without prompting.

That thought at least puts a smile on my lips I go back upstairs to take my morning shower.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s a beautiful spring day, which is especially impressive because it’s barely March. If we were back in Michigan, we’d be walking through two feet of snow in freezing conditions, and my death next week would be all but guaranteed. But despite being snowed in just two weeks ago, we’re now walking through slush and sunshine as we depart the Shack. I’m donning the same clothes I arrived in—same tank top, same khaki shorts, same sneakers, even the same underwear. The only thing different is the red coat I’m wearing over all of it. I had to borrow that from Stan, because there’s “warm enough to melt snow” and then there’s “warm enough to run around without a jacket” and I don’t really care to spend the whole search tense and shivering. I’ll give it back to him when we find the spot.

Unfortunately, the path I was following away from the Shack in 2014 hasn’t been worn into the forest floor yet. Everything is covered in a carpet of mud and disintegrating leaves and fallen branches. I walk brazenly into the woods in approximately the same place I remember walking into them on my last fateful stroll. I recall the path turning a little to the left, around those bushes. But beyond that, it’s anyone’s guess.

After a half an hour of hiking aimlessly, the suspense begins to wear off. The sense that I’m about to leave forever is replaced by a desire to find at least some clue we’re going in the right direction. Every now and then I’ll see something that I think looks familiar, but it has yet to yield any concrete results.

“Ugh.” I pick my way around forest debris with increasing frustration. “You were right to start today. We’re going to be at this all week! I’m so sorry.”

Stan is squelching his way through a giant puddle a few yards away from me. “Relax. You were pretty messed up when you made it to my place. I’m not surprised you don’t remember which way to go.”

“Yeah, but I should remember which way I went _before_ I was dealing with time travel and a sprained ankle and hypothermia!” I glare at a chittering chipmunk in a nearby tree. “It’s not like I’ve never walked through these woods before.”

“Hey, if it takes all day, that’s an extra day I get laid and have a homecooked meal.”

“I never realized you were such an optimist!”

“I’m not.” His face slips into a scowl. “I’m stubborn, though.” As we plod onward, his expression grows thoughtful. “Whaddya think would happen if I went _with_ you?”

“To 2014?”

“Yeah.”

I have to consider that one. “Assuming that’s even possible. I guess we’d have one hell of a threesome.”

“With another guy? An _old_ guy? I’m not good at sharing, sweetie.”

He looks so disgusted by the idea I can’t help but laugh. “It’d be _yourself_!”

“Yeah, but…” He shakes his head. “Weird. Ugh.”

“Darn!” I try to sound genuinely disappointed, just to tease him. Secretly, I think two Stans at once would be more than I could handle.

He casts me a very wary sideways glance. “What, you’re saying you’d…oh. You’re kidding.”

I smirk. “You can see right through me.”

“Now _that’d_ be a trick!”

I smell something dead on my left and immediately change my path to take me closer to Stan and further away from the source. “I don’t think it’d be so great. You’d either see the trees behind me, or get a good look at all my bones and internal organs. Not sexy.”

“Speak for yourself.” He winks.

I mime gagging. “You have issues.”

“Never said I didn’t.” He looks supremely confident in that moment, strolling through the damp spring woods in just a t-shirt and jeans, smirking over his shoulder. I wish I’d brought that camera along.

Another hour or so passes. We’re moving slowly so that I can scan not just the trees and bushes, but the piles of melting snow. I dropped that tape measure when I landed in 1989; if I see it, I’ll know we’re in the right spot. But it’s a big area, and my sense of direction is terrible. “Did you leave a trail of breadcrumbs or anything?” I ask hopefully. “I don’t want to end up lost out here.”

“Or going in circles?” He stops moving, staring rather pointedly at a tree with a long strip of bark that’s been ripped off.

“Ah, damn it!” I exclaim. “Did _you_ do that?”

“About an hour ago,” he confirms.

Well _fuck_. “Stan! You can’t hurt the trees!”

He stops walking and crosses his arms. “Yeah, because that’s what this is really about. Preserving nature. Not you leading us right back to where we started.”

“I _told_ you I didn’t know where I was going!”

“And I thought you’d be happy I ripped the bark off! It’s a lot less—you hear something?”

I freeze and listen. Noises, that sounds like voices. I stay very still and motion Stan to do the same. It’s probably just gnomes. I swear I can hear them sometimes myself, when I’m out walking. I glance around the bases of the nearest tree for signs of them. Stan gives me a strange look, but I don’t see anything else. I can still hear it, though. Somewhere behind us, very faint. I cock my head, trying to catch a word or two, but it’s just too distant. I shake my head and walk closer to Stan. It’s probably just another couple out for a hike in the spring air. But there’s a list as long as my arm of weirder things out there, so I’ll play it safe.

We stay quiet for a minute, treading as softly as we can over a bed of moss and pine needles. I’m starting to relax and about to ask Stan what he thinks when a flash of light catches my attention. I see it out of the corner of my eye, and as soon I turn my head toward the source it’s gone. Maybe just a bright ray of sunlight through the trees? “Did you see that?”

Stan nods. “Like a quiet firework,” he says in a hushed voice. “That way.” He nods his head in the same direction we heard the phantom voices, and we alter our path to head toward it. “Hope nobody’s out here lighting fires.”

That’s a horrifying thought. If the forest burns down, I’ll _never_ find the spot I came through. I gasp and turn my shocked face on him. “Why would you even say that!?”

He spreads his arms in a vast shrug. “Cause I hope nobody’s lighting fires out here?”

At least I can’t see any smoke or flames. Just the one flash. Which, though I didn’t get a close look, could easily have been like the one that happened around me a few weeks ago. Did someone _else_ just travel through time? Is that what that was? “Hello?” I call loudly, starting to hurry in that direction.

“Question for you,” I say to Stan as we head toward the flash. “Say we don’t find a way to get me back. But in 2014, you remember this. You’d come through, right? You’d wait until the date you remember looking with me, and you’d go looking for the rip in time on _your_ end, and maybe you’d come back to _this_ time, and…”

Stan’s face screws up in concentration as he tries to follow my line of thought. “What’s the question here?”

I shake my head, frustrated by my own inability to articulate these complicated ideas. “The voices, the flash. Do you think that might be you from the future? Coming to look for me?”

“Could be,” he says after thinking for a while. “I guess. But then how come that light came _after_ we heard the voices?”

Damn it again! That’s a valid point. Oh well, at least we still have six days to search. I continue to scan the detritus in front of my feet, slowing our pace back down. Guess we’re doing this the hard way. I sigh loudly. “At least my ankle’s doing alright so far.”

“You’re gonna be feeling it tonight, though.”

“Hopefully I’m feeling a lot of things tonight,” I respond, adding a little levity to the tedium of looking at a forest floor. I glance at Stan to see his reaction, and notice that beneath the hair on his arms, he’s got goosebumps. “Oh, you’re cold!” I exclaim in dismay. “You should take your coat back.”

“I’m fine,” he dismisses me, rubbing his arms vigorously. “I’ve handled way worse, believe me.”

“ _Te creo,”_ I answer, thinking of his time in Colombia, which startles a little laugh out of him.

“Ah…no tee-en-ays…idea? Idea.”

“Oooh.” I grin. “ _Dime más, querido_.”

“ _No te preocupos, tengo esto_.” I lift my eyebrows; his Spanish is getting smoother, even if he has to mentally search for phrases he can say. “ _Sacas al chico de la izquierda. Tomaré la derecha._ ”

I laugh delightedly. “No one would ever guess you learned your second language in prison.”

“For your information, I learned it _before_ I got arrested! _Soy inocente, pendejo!_ ”

I snort. “Can’t imagine how you got arrested, with smooth talking like that.”

“Hey just cause _you_ probably learned it in a snooty college classroom doesn’t mean you get the _culture_.”

I stop searching, just for a minute, to step into his arms. “ _Sí. Tienes razón._ In fact, the fact that you had to learn it the hard way makes it far more impressive.” Stan’s hands circle my waist, and he turns us until I can feel the bark of a tree against my back. When he bends his head down, I kiss him eagerly. “Why do you think I find it so sexy?”

“Cause it’s me?” He moves his hands up under the jacket and kisses me harder.

“Good point,” I gasp, discovering my sudden, deep desire to make love against a tree. We’ve done it the woods before, but never like this. I arch my back, pressing my breasts further into his palms, and put my hands down the back of his pants. He reads the signals loud and clear and responds without stopping to question my intent.

Candles and flowers and soft kisses all over are very nice. But with sufficient motivation, getting sap in your hair while your lover unbuckles his pants and takes you against the trunk of a tree can be just as romantic and satisfying. There are times, in fact, when I’d go so far as to call it preferable.

I lean against the tree as I pull my shorts back into place, still shaking from the intensity of the experience. I don’t care if I have to spend the next hour walking around the woods in damp panties, that was incredible. I’m about to tell Stan that I love how good he is at that, but when I look over his shoulder I see a glint of silver protruding from a small snow pile.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, that was fun.”

“No. Look.” I step away from the tree, swiping in annoyance at the piece of bark stuck in my hair. I don’t want to get _too_ close, but I need to see if that’s what I think it is.

The item is still partially buried in the snow. But I can see that it’s roughly square, and there are yellow and black beside the silver. “Stan.” I grope behind me, and after a second his hand comes within range. I grab it tightly and inch closer. “This is it. That’s the tape measure.”

“So what’re you waiting for? Pick it up.”

“Hold onto me. I don’t want to get sucked into the future again somehow.”

“Isn’t that what we came here for?”

I look over my shoulder at him, hearing the sudden gruffness in his voice. “Not without saying goodbye.”

He looks away. “Sometimes it’s easier without a goodbye.”

“Easier on _who_?” I don’t see anything that looks like a wormhole or time tear. Nervously, I reach out and poke the tape measure. Nothing happens, and I exhale a long sigh of relief. I pull it out of the snow and examine it more closely.

There’s a button on top, some arrows, and a symbol that looks vaguely like an infinity sign on the side. “Huh.” I try to remember if I pushed the button the last time I held it. I don’t think I did, but it’s possible.

Now that he’s realized I’m not going to instantly vanish, Stan’s leaning over my shoulder with interest. “That’s it? Looks pretty boring for some magical time travel doodad.”

I nod agreement. “That’s why I didn’t think twice about picking it up.”

“So….you gonna use it?”

“We should at least make sure it works,” I say nervously. Last time I pulled out the tape. I do the same thing now, but this time I do as little as humanly possible. Nothing happens—okay, maybe I _did_ press the button before. I repeat the process, still hanging onto Stan’s hand for dear life, and brush my thumb over the button at the top.

Immediately, I get results. There’s a flash of light, and I feel strangely disoriented. But when I blink at my surroundings, nothing has obviously changed. I stare at Stan.

He’s looking around, too. “That what it’s supposed to do?” He glances down at the ground. “There’s still snow.”

I shrug helplessly. “I have no idea. I mean, I tried really hard to not pull much tape out. Maybe we only moved a few hours?”

“Maybe.” He looks dissatisfied. “So now what?”

“I guess I’ll have to—shhh.”

We both listen, holding our breath. Voices, back the way we were earlier. Two people, I think, but it’s hard to be sure from this distance. There’s a pause, during which Stan and I exchange glances. I look back down at the tape measure again. There’s a toggle between two arrows. Right now it’s pushed down toward the bottom arrow. I shove it up in the other direction.

I could swear one of those distant voices is female. The other is…oh my gosh. I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep myself from laughing. I tug Stan’s arm until he moves his ear close to my lips.

“It’s _us_ ,” I whisper, giggling under my breath. “We went back in time by what, an hour?”

His eyes grow wide as he processes this. “Holy mackerel, we really did! I’m a time traveler!” We grin at each other, and at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Went the wrong way, though,” he observes.

“I think I’ve fixed that,” I answer, pointing at the toggle. “Let’s try again.” I pull the tape out about as far as I did the last time and press the button.

Suddenly we’re in the dark. Near-dark, anyway; we have the greenish yellow glow of my skin, at least. Enough that we can see we’re still in the middle of the woods and the melting patches of slush and snow haven’t vanished. Given that I didn’t pull the tape out all that far, it’s probably a safe guess that this is tonight, and not tomorrow night or some time later this week.

“Um. Oops?” With the sun down, the air around is substantially cooler. And Stan’s not wearing a coat. I grimace at him. “Wanna give it one more try?”

“Nope,” he tells me, and starts walking.

I hurry to catch up. I no longer have to worry about finding small objects or exact locations, and I’m the only source of light he’s got. “Why not?”

“At this rate, you’ll overshoot and I’ll miss another day of potential customers. I got feet, you got light, we can get back the regular way.” He’s got those goosebumps on his arms again. “And I’d rather do it sooner than later.”

“Do you even know the way back in the dark?” I ask, slipping my hand into his so that he has to slow down for me.

“It’s that way.” He points ahead and slightly to the left without any sign of doubt.

“How do you do that?” I ask, awed.

“ _Soy un hombre de muchos talentos_.”

I grin. “That’s enough, Don Juan.”

*

Pity we can’t move in place as well as time, but we make it safely back to the Shack without incident. Honestly, it’s probably better that the stupid tape can’t teleport us too. Who knows where I’d have accidentally sent myself with a tool like _that_.

We’re both freezing by the time we make it home; me because I’m wearing shorts and a tank-top under Stan’s jacket, and Stan because I’m the one wearing his jacket. Despite the fact that according to our internal clocks it’s only a little past lunchtime, we immediately strip off our chilled clothes and dive back into bed. Before doing so I set the tape measure very carefully on the bedside table.

Stan’s reaction when I press my icy feet and hands against him is priceless. But since his hands are nearly as cold as mine, he gets his revenge very quickly. We curl under the covers together, torn between laughing and shivering. “You should have worn a coat,” I tell him, holding my hands between my thighs for heat.

“I would’ve been fine if we’d been back before dark!”

“Liar,” I say fondly. “Thanks, though.” I inch closer, trying to soak up some of the warmth coming off his stomach. “And mission accomplished! In our first day of trying, no less.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing with that thing?”

“We’re here, aren’t we?” I wiggle a little closer, pressing my shoulders up against his chest. I wouldn’t touch my feet yet, but the rest of me feels like it’s starting to thaw. “We went back an hour, and then we went forward half a day.”

“How do you know we didn’t go back to last night instead?”

“Uh, cause there’s only the two of us in this bed.” I creep closer again, this time close enough to press my lips against his jaw. “It’d be pretty awkward if our selves from yesterday were in here, too.”

“Teegs,” Stan sighs, giving in and pulling me all the way against him. “I love you and all, but sometimes you make my head hurt.”

“Aww, honey.” I kiss his chin this time. “That’s not _me_ doing that. It’s time travel.”

“Yeah, well, I could do without it.”

“I wouldn’t be here without it.”

“Oh, you want these cold hands back on your neck?”

“I didn’t scream when you put them on my back just now.”

“So you _do_ want them right here?” He places one right between my breasts, and I stifle a shriek. Definitely still cold.

“I will put my feet _all over you_ ,” I threaten when I’ve recovered from the shock.

“Not if I do this, you won’t,” he retorts, grinning as he pins my shoulders to the bed with his freezing fingers and holds my legs down with his knees. I giggle the entire time I’m struggling against it, and eventually surrender.

“I have to tell you something,” I whisper as he holds me effectively captive. He lifts his eyebrows in a silent question. “I know you mark your cards,” I say, and start giggling again.

He’s surprised enough that he almost releases me, but he recovers himself at the last second. “So _that’s_ how you kept winning!”

I beam up at him. “I held cards out a few times, too.”

His eyes widen, but he keeps me pinned. “You little…” He picks up one hand so can shake a scolding finger at me.

I laugh and try to escape. “You taught me well.”

“No I…” He trails off into a growl as he gets my point. “You really want my cold hands all _over_ you, huh?”

“Joke’s on you, they’re not cold anymore,” I inform him triumphantly. After pausing to reflect, I add “But you can put them all over me anyway.”

*

After thoroughly warming ourselves up, we’re starving. We head downstairs and eat peanut butter on toast, because it’s quick and warm and easy. Then we find the 60s station on the radio again, and dance until we’re exhausted again. By then it’s early morning, so we go back to bed. This time, we actually fall asleep.

The next morning we have to get up on time to open the Shack, despite Stan being dead on his feet. He’s right to do it, though—between the spring weather and the unscheduled closure yesterday, there’s a high number of tourists clamoring to see weird stuff and give him their money. I do my best to be useful in the background, which includes watching the news to confirm that it actually _is_ Wednesday today and not some random date further in the past or future.

We go into town to pick up more groceries after the Shack closes for the day. I choose a nice cut of steak and potatoes for him, as well as a new bottle of terrible whisky. It feels like we need to celebrate the fact that he’s not going to have to watch me die.

Stan brings the disposable camera to the basement and takes a few pictures of the map. Then he instructs me to pull out all the pins while he checks the machines. I’m only too happy to do it. Too bad I haven’t been able to do anything truly useful while I’m here—but then, I always knew I couldn’t. After finishing up our usual attempts, we go upstairs and have a wonderful steak dinner, after which we nearly fall asleep rewatching one of his movies.

I stay three more days. Each one is worth it, but they also get progressively more bittersweet. On Sunday, I debate the merits of staying an extra day. I could probably get away with it. He only commented last night that I was starting to feel a little warm. One more day wouldn’t hurt, right?

But I know it’s a stupid risk to take, and this isn’t something we can put off indefinitely. I take a shower, get dressed in the same clothes I wore on the way in, and pass the measuring tape back and forth between my hands before going downstairs to make coffee. It’s indistinguishable from Stan’s, these days.

When he joins me downstairs we have breakfast together, the awkwardness of my impending departure hanging over our heads the whole time. When it gets too unbearable, I grab the jar of notes from the cupboard I hid it in last Tuesday and press it into his hands.

“I wrote these for you. One for every year I’m not here. They’re not much. I know, it’s stupid. Just little notes. And like I said before, don’t sit around pining for me or anything. Ha, pining.” I smile bitterly at the pun on his name. “But if I can’t be here, I wanted you to have _something_ you could hold on to. The first one’s for next year. Sorry my handwriting sucks.”

“Long as you didn’t write them in one of Ford’s stupid codes,” he says, and then has to clear his throat. “Thanks. That’s, uh…thanks.”

I nod, understanding everything he doesn’t have the words for. I barely have the words for it, myself.

“Wanna get this over with?” he asks. He has to clear his throat after saying that, too.

I throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him as tightly as I can. I feel my tears soak into his shirt, but I nod. Since burying Frank, I think this might be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. “Let’s get it over with,” I agree, my voice hoarse.

We discussed it last night and agreed that just inside the woods behind the Shack is the best place to do it. It’s out of sight of any tourists, but not deep enough to get lost. (We debated the merits of doing it from inside the house, but Stan doesn’t trust my skills with the measuring tape enough to risk it. What if I accidentally travel to a time when there’s an employee or family member in the room? Or worse, a past version of myself?)

So here I am, standing just behind a large tree, my hands around the back of Stan’s neck, feeling his scruff against my face as I kiss him one last time. I know I’ll see him again. I’ll be back in his arms in a matter of minutes, if you look at it the right way. And I know he’ll see _me_ again, too. But it still hurts.

Oh, does it hurt.

“This is why I hate goodbyes,” he chokes out as he watches the tears trickle down my cheeks. “I don’t wanna remember you like _this_.”

“You won’t,” I tell him, swiping at my eyes. I look down, blinking the last of the tears free, and pull out the tape out. I’ve checked everything in advance—I know exactly how many days I need to go, and I’ve made extra sure the toggle is in the forward position. I tug it out slowly, counting off tick marks, making sure I’ve got it right. July 28, 2014. The day after I leave, because I’d rather risk being missing one night than risk turning up before I’ve even gone.

Ugh, sometimes I give _myself_ a headache.

I press my thumb down hard against the side of the tape, holding it in place so that it can’t slide back into itself. Then I look back up at Stan. I put the hand that isn’t holding the tape up to his cheek, and manage a real smile for him. “This _isn’t_ goodbye, honey. It’s just _see you later_.”

“Yeah. Right.” He gives me a smile that nearly breaks my heart.

“I love you,” I tell him, and lean up to kiss him. Alright, that one a minute ago wasn’t the last time. This is.

When we reluctantly pull apart, I step back, smile, and push the button on the gadget in my hand while releasing the tape. There’s a flash of light, and that strange passing feeling like stepping off a plane. And just like that, in the blink of an eye, it’s all gone.

No, not all of it. In fact, most of it is still exactly the same. There’s still a large tree behind me, and when I walk around it I can see the back of the Mystery Shack. But Stan’s gone. And the puddles of melting snow have been replaced by a warm summer rain.

And Stan’s gone.

I sink down into a crouch, press the balls of my hands into my eyes, and let myself cry for a minute. When I feel able, I push myself back to my feet and take a steadying breath. The light rain is a blessing, really. It means no one’s outside, and it means no one will immediately be able to tell that I’ve been crying.

I hide the measuring tape under a bush. Then I square my shoulders and walk back toward my regular life.


	12. Chapter 12

Nobody’s home. I hear a vacuum from upstairs, signaling that Abuelita is around, but I don’t see a single person as I move through the house. It feels weird walking through into the gift shop, after a month of hiding from everyone but Stan, but I remind myself that this is 2014. (Or at least, I think it is.) Everyone here knows me.

The gift shop is populated by tourists, but the only person I immediately recognize is Melody. When she sees me, her jaw drops open and she runs around the counter to hug me. “Oh, man! Where have you _been_? Soos told me you just disappeared yesterday!”

“At the risk of sounding trite, it’s a long story.” My face arranges itself into something that looks like a smile but feels like relief. Yesterday. Soos. Melody. _Home_. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Looking for you!” she exclaims as if it’s obvious. “Well okay, Soos—he’s taking a group through the Shack. But Mabel and Dipper are riding the golf cart around here somewhere looking for clues. Dave and his friends are scouting around town. Nicky and Horace were home hoping you’ll turn up, last I’d heard.” She pulls a phone out of her pocket and waggles it back and forth, proof that they’re all keeping each other up to date.

“And Stan?” I ask, holding my breath.

“Mabel said he was down at the police station this morning, giving Blubbs a piece of his mind.” She winces in sympathy at the idea—though whether it’s sympathy for Stan or Blubbs, I can’t say. “I think he went home after that?”

It takes me a second to recall that Stan and I live together on Turner street. The Shack isn’t his home anymore. It’s a jarring transition, but accepting it puts me firmly on my feet in 2014. “Guess you better let them know I’m alive, huh?” I grin at her.

“You know what?” Smiling, Melody shoves the phone at me. “Do it yourself.”

The short line of people waiting at the register look pleased to see her go back behind it. I step politely out of the way and let her get back to her job. It’s tempting to look through her recent text messages and see what everyone has been saying about my disappearance, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. And I know Stan’s phone number without needing to go through her call history. It only rings once before I get an answer.

“You find something?”

He sounds so _worried_. I wish he’d been here himself, so I wouldn’t have to wait to run into his arms and let him know it’s all going to be alright. But I guess he couldn’t know exactly what time of day I’d come through.

“Even better,” I say, letting him here the grin in my voice. “I’m back.”

“ _Teagan!_ ” Relief floods his voice. “You’re at the Shack?”

“Where else would I be?” I answer warmly.

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself for the past thirty hours,” he replies tartly. “You got a lot of explaining to do, missy.”

This conversation isn’t going the way I expected. “I’m okay, honey,” I reassure him. “I didn’t mean to worry you! I thought you’d understand what happened.”

“How would I do that? Nick, she’s back. You coming?”

I can hear Nicky’s exclamation in the background of the call, and then his voice replaces Stan’s in my ear. “ _Mom_! Where have you _been_?”

“1989,” I answer.

“Huh?”

“Stan can tell you.” Honestly, why didn’t he explain it to them from the start? This has all happened already, he had to know it was coming. The second I vanished yesterday, he should have known it was because I’d taken my trip back in time. I’m starting to feel uneasy. “You know, it’ll be easier if I just explain it to everyone at once. Will you text Dave and the twins for me? Tell them to meet us at home.”

“Okay.” He pauses. “Did you say 1989?”

“Yes. It’s a long story. Give the phone back to Stan for now. I’ll see you soon.”

I can hear the two of them talking as the phone passes hands; Stan asking if Nicky’s coming along, and Nicky answering that he’ll stay with Horace and call the others. Then Stan speaks directly to me again, his voice coming through loud and clear. “I’m coming. You stay put! Don’t move, don’t touch anything. Just stay by Melody till I get there. Got it?”

He sounds angry, but I know it’s born out of fear. “I won’t move till you walk through the door. Promise.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Behind him, I can hear the fainter sounds of doors opening and closing, and the rumble of the El Diablo springing to life. “Glad you’re safe,” he says, his voice softening. “I’ll be right there.”

“Thanks,” I answer, hoping the love in my voice is audible. “See you soon.”

True to my promise, I stay close to Melody after returning her phone to her. I refrain from touching anything, and I stay within the confines of the gift shop. I wonder why Stan sounded so scared. I’m sure my failure to return from my walk was jarring for everyone, but he should have _known_ where I’d gone. He even knew the exact date! He should have been glad that we finally reached this point, not terrified by my disappearance. Something’s wrong.

Maybe he just wants to make _sure_ that’s where I went. Plenty of weird stuff happens in this town, after all. Or maybe he’s been worried that the past somehow changed the present after all, and I wouldn’t be back? I’ll have to ask him in person. Once I’ve hugged him for a long, long time.

The back door to the shop bursts open, and there he is. Uncombed gray hair, glasses, age lines, scars, stained undershirt over a protruding stomach, everything. No one has ever looked more perfect.

I manage to spring the length of the room and attach myself to him before the tears start up. I ignore them and squeeze Stan harder, pressing my lips to his. His hands come up around me, and I feel a profound sense of security. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur before kissing him again. “I’m never going to leave again.”

“You’d better not,” he tells me, holding me hard enough it hurts. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack for real one of these days.”

I laugh, more relief than from anything actually being funny. “Is it weird if I say I missed you?”

“I missed you too,” he says, looking down at me as if I’ve said something strange. “Why’d that be weird? Never mind.” His hands settle on my shoulders, holding me far enough back that he can see my face. “First tell me where you’ve _been_. What happened? You scared the shit outta me.”

Now I’m sure I’m looking at him like _he’s_ said something strange. “You don’t know?”

“How would I know?” he demands. “You just vanished into the woods! You _know_ all the crazy stuff that’s out there!”

“Exactly.” I rest my hands on his chest and look up at him seriously. “There’s crazy stuff out there. Like a tape measure that accidentally sent me back in time.”

“What?” Stan looks both irritated and confused. Aside from the kiss, this is not the reunion I was hoping for.

“February 1989,” I tell him, holding his gaze, willing him to give me some sign. “It’s _happened_ now. I know all about it.” I move a hand up to his cheek. Am I just used to looking at the younger version of him now, or are those extra circles under his eyes from stress? “You don’t have to pretend anymore, honey!”

Instead of seeing understanding and happiness in his eyes, I watch his mouth tip downward in a frown of concern. He stares harder into my face. “You sure you’re okay? Didja fall and hit your head out there?”

“No!” When he moves to run his fingers over my scalp, I grab his hand and pull it to my heart instead. “I’m saying I’ve been back in time now. You can stop lying about it and pretending you never met me before.” I search his eyes for some light of recognition. “Shout and Twist? Coffee? Movie nights? The coordinates in the map? Cheating at poker? Dancing? My sprained ankle? The…the…”

There’s love and concern in his eyes, but nothing more. “You _weren’t_ lying,” I say numbly, uncomprehending. “You really don’t remember.” How does he not remember? Fresh tears sting my eyes. He’s looking right at me, and I know it happened, but it’s like all of it’s _gone._ He’s forgotten everything. I thought when I got back here, the past and the future would be joined and everything would be _better_ , and the fact that I had it wrong leaves me absolutely gutted.

“How do you not _remember_?” I look up at him, not caring that tears are falling freely onto my shirt in front of Melody and a bunch of tourists and locals. “You said you _loved_ me!”

Stan’s looking more worried by the minute. “Course I love you!” He steps sideways, keeping one hand around my back as he directs me toward the door. “Let’s get home, okay? The kids all need to see you’re okay.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and let him lead me out to the car. The rain has slowed to barely a drizzle. I slide over the familiar leather bench seat and sit there hugging myself and staring out the window. I know my reaction isn’t fair to Stan, who’s been worried sick about me. But the sense of loss is overwhelming. Being back with my regular boyfriend and my regular life should be good enough for me. Maybe expecting anything more was greedy. It still hurts. And it doesn’t make any _sense_ , damn it! It was definitely a time loop. Nothing I did changed this timeline, at least as far as I can tell. That should be a huge load off my mind. But then how…?

I glance quickly over at Stan. He’s staring moodily out the window on his side, brows pulled down until they nearly meet over the bridge of his nose. I reach out and put my hand on top of his. It might not be the reunion I wanted, but I’m still glad to have him here. He needs to know that.

We hear a shout and look through the window in time to see Dipper and Mabel practically falling out of the Shack’s golf cart in their hurry to reach us. “You found her!” Dipper exclaims as they jump into the back seat of the Stanmobile. “What _happened_?”

“Teakettle!” Mabel shrieks, pulling me into a quick backward embrace that nearly cuts off my airflow. “We were so _worried_!”

“What got you?” Dipper asks eagerly. “Was it the gnomes again? Or a gremboblin? Killbillies? Walking toadstools?”

“You’re okay, right?” Mabel demands, leaning over the back of the seat and practically falling into my lap as she tries to get a good look. “You should have seen Grunkle Stan when we found out you were missing. He was _heroic_!” Her eyes shine with intensity…though to be fair, they do that almost all the time, regardless of circumstance.

“Manitaurs?” Dipper continues to guess. “Where did they take you?”

I put up a hand to shut them up, even though their palpable excitement is enough to drag a smile out of me. “No, no, no, and Mabel, I totally believe he was.” I offer Stan a small, apologetic smile. “I want to hear all about it, okay? Let’s get home.”

Mabel conscientiously buckles her seatbelt. “Dave’s on his way there. He had to take Candy and Grenda home first.”

“But what _happened_?” Dipper insists, fastening his own seatbelt. “It _was_ something paranormal, right?” He eyes me suspiciously—he’s a smart kid, he’s noticed my knack for injuring myself through totally natural means.

“It was,” I tell him, accepting that I’m going to have to tell the whole story to everyone. Maybe they’ll have an explanation I haven’t thought of, and at the very least they deserve the truth. “Mostly, anyway. It started with me tripping and spraining my ankle.”

Stan glances down at my feet suspiciously. “You were walking okay a minute ago.”

I grimace. “Yes, well. Here’s the weird part—that happened a _month_ ago.”

His brows come way down again, and he crosses his arms. “No it didn’t. It happened yesterday.”

“Also true.” I gulp, and look to the twins for help. “I found this thing in the woods. It looked like a measuring tape. I picked it up and played with it.”

Both their jaws fall open; Dipper stares, Mabel gasps in delight. Then they say in almost perfect unison, “The _time tape_?”

Stan might think I’m losing my mind, but _someone_ believes me! “You know what I’m talking about?”

Mabel nods vigorously.

“I haven’t seen one since before Weirdmaggedon!” Dipper says. “Where is it? Do you still have it?”

“I hid it,” I say primly, suddenly very glad that I didn’t bring it out of the woods with me. I can only imagine the sort of trouble the kids would get up to with something like that!

“But you’re going to tell us where, right?” Mabel asks hopefully.

Stan’s crossed arms relax as he turns in his seat. “Hold up. This is a real thing? _Time travel?_ How come you knuckleheads never told me about this one?”

Both the teens shrug guiltily, which I suppose is its own answer.

“I am absolutely _not_ going to give it to you,” I inform them like a responsible adult. “Do you want to hear the story, or what? I shouldn’t even be telling it to you. I haven’t told my own kids yet!”

The idea of hearing it first seems to be an incentive. They settle down at once. “So you found the time tape?” Dipper asks. “And you _used_ it?”

I nod, watching Stan more than them. “I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even know the tape did it, at first. If I _had_ , I probably wouldn’t have left it in the snow in the middle of the woods!”

“You did _what_?” Dipper is aghast.

“You just _left_ it?” So is Mabel.

“Whaddya mean, _snow_?” Stan’s focuses on a completely different word.

“I mean there was snow.” I clasp my hands in my lap. The memories are all so fresh, and in a different way it’s all so distant. “Because I somehow sent myself to February 1989.”

“Oh my gosh,” Dipper mutters. “What’d you do?”

“Did you see Grunkle Stan?” Mabel asks immediately.

I have to take another deep breath. My palms feel sweaty. “I did, as a matter of fact.” I look from him to the twins, then back again. “And he doesn’t seem to remember any of it.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Dipper protests. “Even if the timeline changed, that’d affect where we are now, not what we remember about the—”

“No, Dipper!” Mabel proceeds to gestures at Stan, then mouth something I can’t decipher. Dipper contorts his face in answer to her, and some game of charades that only the two of them understand unfolds.

I leave them to it, turning my attention back to Stan. “I’m not crazy,” I tell him. “I didn’t hit my head. I spent a month with you in 1989, and I have no idea what went wrong when I came back. I’m sure it’s not like you meant to forget. But you were _supposed_ to remember me.”

Stan rubs the back of his neck, looking tired. “You’re telling me that you disappeared yesterday, spent a month in ’89, and came back today. And I don’t remember this ever happening.” He sighs, and his skepticism fades. “You know what? I _do_ believe you. I don’t _get_ it, but so what else is new?”

I smile tentatively and slide along the seat, fitting myself against his side. “Thanks. I’m sorry I scared you—I didn’t mean to disappear like that, trust me.” I rub my face against his shoulder, relishing the familiar smells and textures. “I’m glad to be home.”

“Um, Grunkle Stan?” Dipper says. Both of us turn to look over the back of the seat. Apparently the game of charades is over. “We think we know why you don’t remember. Teagan, did anyone else see you in 1989? Did anyone know you were there besides Stan?”

“No. I mean, a few people _saw_ me. But no one we know now, no one who knows who I am.” Why should that matter? “I tried to stay out of sight, since I didn’t want to screw up the timeline.”

He nods as if that’s what he suspects, and Mabel declares that she _knew_ it. “Well, I’d have to check with McGucket or Grunkle Ford to be sure,” Dipper continues, “but I think that’d mean that after Weirdmaggedon…well…”

I crook my head to the side, waiting for the punchline. I know about Bill. I know about Weirdmaggedon. I know that they saved the town by hitting Stan with a memory gun, like a supersized version of the little personal defense item I carry in my purse. I look to Stan. “But you got your memory _back_ after that,” I protest, puzzled. “You _know_ who you are. You know all of us. You remember your childhood with Ford. I mean, when we went to Jersey last fall, you guys were reliving old memories at every turn!”

“Yeah!” He agrees with me, but he sounds just a little uncertain. “I remember _all_ that stuff! And I remember everything since hiring Soos, too.”

“Because Soos helped you remember,” Dipper says, looking embarrassed. “And you remember your childhood because _Ford_ helped you remember.”

“And you remembered all of that summer because _we_ helped you remember,” Mabel chips in, eager to help.

“But the 80s?” Dipper says doubtfully. “Who were you spending time with in the 80s?”

Stan’s face goes still as he tries to think, and I see a bit of fear creep into his eyes. “I was mostly by myself. I was working on the portal, you know? Getting the Shack up and going. It took a lot of work.”

Mabel nods vigorously. “And how much of it do you actually _remember_?”

Stan looks positively trapped now. I put my hand supportively on his leg as I stare at the twins. “You’re saying he only got all his memories back by getting re-exposed to them?”

“Something like that.” Dipper bobs his head. “At the time, Ford said it worked because we started trying to bring his memory back almost as soon as we erased it. And we spent days after that _working_ at it. You remember, Grunkle Stan?”

He nods at that, seemingly pleased that we’re asking about something he _does_ recall. “We went all over town, made all my favorite foods.” His lip curls slightly. “Looked through _every one_ of Mabel’s scrapbook pictures and tokens. I had glitter stuck to my clothes for weeks.”

Mabel beams as though this is praise.

“And Ford put on all those old slides from when you were kids, and told you stories and stuff until it clicked back into place,” Dipper reminds him.

“But if that’s the case,” I interject, “why wouldn’t he have remembered me when we met last summer? Wouldn’t _that_ have triggered the memory, even if he’d forgotten it before then?”

“I don’t know,” Dipper is forced to admit. “It might have been too far removed.”

I’m hanging onto Stan’s knee tightly now. He rests his hand on top of mine, and I rotate my palm around to squeeze that, instead. “So you’re saying it’s just…gone forever? A whole month with you, and it only happened in my memory? I might as _well_ have hit my head!”

Stan’s looking at me with fresh concern. “Sweetie, did you say you were there for a _month_? Son of a bitch, _that’s_ why you feel so warm!” He releases my hand to shove the key into the ignition. “Figure out the logic of time travel later,” he says as we peel out of the parking area. “We need to get home!”

“I’m not going to burst into flames on the drive home,” I try to assure him.

“And _I’m_ not taking any chances,” he responds.

We take a sharp turn, and I slide down the seat toward the passenger window. I grab onto his hand again, and despite the sharp ache in my chest I’m able to give him a heartfelt smile. “I love you.”

*

“Mom!”

“Mom!”

“ _Mom!_ ”

My boys come flying at me before we’re even through the front door. They must have heard us pull up; all three of them are on the porch when I turn around from slamming the car door. And all three of them can’t wait to hug me—even Nicky, who likes to think he’s too cool for hugs now that he’s a teenager. I nearly disappear under the weight of teenage boys, and Stan has to shoulder through them to save me after a minute.

“Come on, let her get in the house first, jeez.”

My eyes are wet when I release my sons. “I’m fine, I swear! I told you I’m fine,” I smile.

“Yeah, but she needs to go take her meds,” Stan says pointedly, pulling me totally free and steering me toward the stairs.

“Oh jeez, that can wait two minutes!” I put him off gently, because I know he’s being the responsible one. But my kids are worried, and I haven’t seen them in a month, and I need to hear what’s been going on in my absence…even if my absence, from their point of view, has only been a day.

I sit down on the living room sofa. Dave and Nicky take the seats on either side of me, while Horace sits cross-legged right at my feet. Dipper and Mabel join him on the rug, while Stan hovers disapprovingly nearby. “Don’t worry,” I assure him, “I’m not going to forget.”

“That a joke?” he asks irritably.

“What? No!” I cringe; that really _was_ a poor choice of words. I need to get him alone again very soon. I also, I suppose, need time to myself very soon. This is a lot of information to digest. “So,” I ask the kids, “start at the beginning. What’d I miss?”

Naturally they fall all over themselves—and each other—in their hurry to share details. Horace alone remains silent as the bulk of the story unfolds. An hour or two after I left for my stroll in the woods, the twins went inside to ask Soos about the golf cart’s weird tendency to pull to the right. That was when they realized I hadn’t come back yet, but no one panicked immediately. They tried texting me first. When I didn’t respond, Mabel thought that a mass family text asking _Anyone seen Teakettle?_ was a very chill way of approaching my absence.

Stan descended on them within five minutes, demanding answers and dragging every spare hand out into the woods to look for me. Sounds like he’d correctly assumed that I’d managed to injure myself, though he never imagined I was getting hypothermia while trying to make my way home on my own. When nobody found any sign of me and I continued not responding to texts, _that_ was when the panic set in. They closed up the Shack for the afternoon so that Soos, Melody, and even Abuelita could help canvass the woods. Dave picked up Nicky and drove out to join. Ford got called for advice. Favors got called in from friends. It sounds like by nightfall last night, half the town was searching for me.

The kids are having a great time telling this exciting story. I’m sure my face is as red as a strawberry, though. Teagan Kettle, can’t even go for a walk in the woods without getting lost, but she’s one of our own so we’ll go help out…I could just imagine it. Ugh. I will never live this down.

It almost makes me glad they couldn’t find me anywhere. Makes my disappearance seem much more interesting and mysterious, and less humiliating.

When it got too dark to search, they went to the police station. Not that the police could _do_ anything, given how long I’d been missing, but Stan thought given this was Gravity Falls they might see the need for urgency. They put him off until the morning, and it sounds like he spent the rest of the night ranting furiously about worthless “authority” figures. Dave had tried running some sort of search that was supposed to locate my phone, but it couldn’t find any trace at all. As if my phone had vanished right off the earth along with me.

Which was when Stan _really_ started to worry.

Luckily, I turned up before he demanded Ford fly out from Maryland to help figure out what paranormal phenomenon or creature had stolen his girlfriend. But it’s no wonder everyone is stressed and sleep-deprived. Even though I know my little trip wasn’t intentional, I still feel horribly guilty for putting everyone through that.

And now, of course, they want to hear _my_ side of the story. The twins hurry to answer that one for me, given our conversation in the car. I can tell that Dave in particular is put out by this, and Horace demands to know why, if I was in 1989, I didn’t come visit him. But as I take over the narrative of the story everyone slips into captive listening. I leave out all the really interesting parts, of course. But I tell them about nearly freezing to death, and Stan taking care of me, and the constant struggle of trying to figure out what it was safe to tell him and what it wasn’t. I don’t mention that he locked me in the basement, but I do mention that we worked out an agreement for me to stay until the snow melted.

That also explains, at least for them, how I could spend a whole month in a different time. All five of them shake their heads at my stupidity for leaving the tape measure lying in the woods, regardless of how disoriented I must have been. Mabel _does_ think it’s terribly romantic that Stan helped me without even knowing who I was, though.

By the time they get done reassuring themselves that I’m fine and have no new information on the paranormal to add, I’m relieved to get upstairs and away from all their questions. I head immediately into the bathroom, where I open the medicine cabinet above the sink. I grab the pill bottle, shake out one of the little gray tablets, and toss it back with a glass of water. As soon as it goes down my throat, I feel something in my shoulders relax. I didn’t realize just how much that was weighing on me, I guess.

I’m about to close the cupboard back up when I see my home Depo shot lying on the same shelf as the bottle. Shoot, I’m due to use that this month, aren’t I? It’s the first day of every third month, and I think the last time was in May. In which case, good thing I got back when I did! If I’m more than a week late, its effectiveness goes way down.

I always mark the dates for my shots in my calendar app, I’ll just check. Wait, my phone is still dead. Ugh, I really hope it can be salvaged! I go into the bedroom, searching for my charger on top of the dresser. Yep, there it is. I pull my long-dead phone out of my pocket and plug it in. Hopefully that’s all it’ll take to get it up and running again. I wish everything _else_ was that easy!

The twins said they were able to restore Stan’s memories after Weirdmaggedon by exposing him to familiar things. There must be something I can do to trigger some memories of us, right? I try to think about things that might ring a bell, this many years later. The notes! Does he still have the notes? Or maybe I can put that 60s station on in the house and try dancing with him. Or…

Wait a second. My mind leaps back to the shot in my medicine cabinet. I’m supposed to do it every twelve weeks…but…according to my body’s timeline… _Fuck._

And here I thought switching from pills to shots was the option that would make it _harder_ to forget. That clearly did not account for time travel. Good thing I’m not in my 20s anymore, when fertility was practically coming out of my pores. Even with a late shot and all the sex I’ve been having, the odds of my body magically becoming pregnant at my age are pretty low. Should be fine. I put it out of my head.

Dancing…or that jar of notes, if I can find it…or… “The pictures!” I actually say aloud. I know they’re still somewhere. It’s only been a year since Mabel showed them to me! I head back downstairs at something just shy of a run.

And almost crash into Stan three steps from the bottom. I stop short and laugh. “Sorry! I just had an idea.”

His mouth twitches upward, like he wants to smile. “Course you did.”

I reel in my excitement and put a hand on his arm. “It can wait. Come upstairs with me for a minute.”

“You were just coming down.”

“I know.” I shrug and lead the way back up to our bedroom. When we get there, I sit down on the side of the bed. Stan starts to do the same, but halfway through he sinks into it, groans, and flops backward.

I smile and lie down next to him, resting a hand lightly on his chest. “I’m so sorry I scared you like that.”

He lifts a hand enough to flap it at me. “Not your fault.” Then he lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Only you, Teegs.”

“Only me?”

He nods tiredly. “Even here, most people manage to avoid the really weird stuff, you know? I’ve been here more than thirty years, and you know how many times _I’ve_ swallowed a bug? Or adopted a ghost? Or fell right over a time travel gadget?”

I prop myself up on one elbow, moving my fingers in soothing circles. “Well, they do say the average person eats like eight spiders in their sleep every year. So if that’s true, you’ve probably eaten plenty of bugs in your time here.” He shoots me a dirty look, and I smirk. “Sorry.”

“Even the _kids_ ,” he goes on. “They go out _looking_ for trouble, and _they_ don’t find anything worse than what you stumble on.” He pauses, thoughtfully, and glowers. “Maybe they just don’t tell me.”

I’m fairly sure that last guess is closer to the truth. “They’re teenagers. How much do they _ever_ tell us?”

“Heh.” He breaths out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh, but close. “How much do _we_ tell _them_?”

“Oh, we tell them plenty,” I smile. “We just…leave out certain things that wouldn’t interest them.”

He goes quiet for a minute, and I can tell he’s wrapped up in his own thoughts. “So you gonna fill me in on what _really_ happened in ‘89? Since I can’t remember?”

I wince at the bitterness in his voice. “I’m so sorry, honey. It never _occurred_ to me that there’d be things that didn’t come back after that memory wipe. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“It didn’t occur to _me_ , either,” he says, sounding angry with himself. “I remember the 80s…kinda. Mostly cause they were a lot like the 90s. I remember coming here and losing Ford and starting everything up. That part’s crystal clear.” He looks lost as his eyes latch onto my face. “So all this time, you’re saying we already _knew_ each other?”

I bite my lip. “I mean…it didn’t happen till now. I’m 41 now. So when we met last summer and I’d just turned 40, no. I’d never met you before. It was your past, but my future at that point.” I relax my elbow, lying fully down and snuggling against him. “That bothered me a lot in ‘89, you know. At least, at first. I thought that you _had_ known me right away last summer, remembered everything, and you were just lying to me because you didn’t want to upset causality.”

Stan makes a groan of disgust. “And you were okay with that?”

I shrug. “If it’s what you had to do, I guess I wouldn’t blame you. It didn’t scare me nearly as much as the thought of losing you did.”

“I hear _that_ ,” he says, and yawns.

“Really,” I think out loud, “I know finding out you didn’t remember it was a shock for me, but maybe it was a good thing after all.”

“How you figure?”

I smile at him, a happy grin that goes all the way to my eyes. “It means you were just being yourself when we met. It means everything happened…ah, what’s the word I’m looking for here? Organically! There was nothing secret or weird or complicated about it. Everything that’s happened since I met you happened exactly the way I remember it.” I squeeze my arm against him in a reclining hug and drape my leg over his. “And I _love_ all those memories.”

He touches my arm lightly—just my arm, but it gives me happy shivers anyway. “Always gotta look on the bright side, too, doncha?”

“I try,” I say contentedly, rubbing my face against his shoulder. “Do you really want to hear about it?”

“About what, your time travel adventures?” He snorts. “I ask about your _day,_ don’t I? I don’t see how I get out of asking about your _month_.”

I laugh a little. “You just want to know if we slept together, don’t you?”

“Hey if my girl’s been banging someone else, I think I deserve to know!” There’s an edge of suspicion to the comment, but he’s mostly teasing me.

“It’s _not_ someone else, though. It’s _you_!”

“So you _did_ bang him!”

“ _You!_ And you promised you wouldn’t get mad about it in the future!”

He raises his eyebrows, giving me a long, skeptical look. I match it, not backing down, and he breaks into a reluctant smile. “Okay, you got me. Now I _gotta_ get those memories back. You said you had an idea?”

“I do,” I agree, wiggling up far enough to look down into his face. “But it involves talking to the kids. And while I really want to do that, I want another minute alone with you first.” Softly, I brush my fingers through his hair, trace the line of his jaw, locate the scar on his shoulder from his boating adventures with Ford. “You won’t remember me saying it,” I tell him, “but in 1989, before I left, I told you that age doesn’t matter. Time doesn’t matter. If the memories can’t come back, I guess that doesn’t matter so much, either. What _does_ matter is that I’m with you.”

“I’ll get the memories back,” he says stubbornly, but I can tell my touch is mellowing him out already.

I nod. “We’ll try. But even if we don’t. It’ll be okay. Because I love you.”

“Oh no, we’re getting them back. Because otherwise I’m going to be thinking about you making it with some guy half my age.”

I laugh. “Again, it was _you._ And you had less scars.” I sigh dramatically. “I made do, but it really wasn’t the same, you know?”

Stan rewards me with a smile, and fans another yawn. “You know what I really want to do right now?”

I’d like to say he wants to let me get very well reacquainted with all those scars, but that’s not the vibe I’m getting from him right now. “You want to take a nap, don’t you.”

“I was up _all night_ , sweetie.”

I peck him on the cheek. “Okay. Get comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable.”

“Good. Close your eyes. I’ll tell you about my crazy 80s adventure, in painstaking detail, and you fall asleep when you fall asleep. Okay?”

“Yup.” He’s already closed his eyes.

“Just don’t sleep through dinner, alright?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. So the first day after I arrived, I was still recovering from nearly freezing to death, and you know what you did? You made me beg to be allowed to stay. I had to give you hot tips on what stocks to invest on for the future.” I pause, thoughtfully. “Do you _have_ any stocks?”

He yawns again. “Cashed them out in 2012.”

Of course he did. “Well after that we got along pretty well for a while. I took a hot bath, and…”

“In front of me?”

“ _No_! We’d just met, what do you take me for?” His eyes are still closed, but he smiles at that. “I took a bath, and you gave me some breakfast. It had snowed the whole time I was asleep, so we were pretty much snowed in together. The roads were a total mess, no tourists anywhere. You couldn’t even get into town for a few days.”  
“I remember that,” he murmurs drowsily. “Jerks took forever getting the plows out my way. Almost ran outta food. We had to eat peanut butter for days.”

“That’s right.” Hope flutters in my chest, but I try to keep my voice even and soothing. “Let’s see…When I explained who I was and where I came from, I told you I knew about Ford. That helped me convince you I was legit from the future at first, but I guess I exploited it too much. Made you suspicious all over again.”

I pause, and he mumbles “Oh no” after a second.

“Yeah.” I smile wryly. “You decided you were going to force me to help you get him back. Locked me in the basement and everything. I wrote a note to you—I mean, you _now_ —while I was down there, but then I couldn’t think how to get it to you. And then…”

I keep talking for a few more minutes, reliving the memories for myself. After a while, I stop expecting Stan to interject any comments of his own. He’s already snoring.

“Mom!” Nicky bellows from downstairs.

I sneak quietly out of the bedroom, and head back downstairs to see what they need.

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it. At least, until I finish the FOURTH installment. Obviously there has to be one, too much got left unresolved here...but I felt like this work needed to be essentially encapsulated, just focusing on the time in 1989. To go too far beyond her return would screw up the balance of it.


End file.
